


Weakness Will Not Be Your Saviour

by Ellajane2255



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: And then it doesnt again, Angst with a Happy Ending, Army Captain!Lockwood, Art student!Lucy, Bars, But he's retired and now he's, Demisexual!Lucy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Firefighter!Lockwood, Gratuitous topless Lockwood, History student!Quill, Hospitals, House Fires, Humour, In a very inappropriate place, Lockwood has repressed trauma, Lockwood in uniform, Lockwood is highly functioning, Lockwood was in the SAS, Longing and pining over cups of tea, Loss of Virginity, Lucy barely functions, Lucy has repressed trauma, Lucy wears lingerie for herself, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Naked modelling for art classes, Sexual assault mentioned, Sexy fireman calendars, Therapy for everyone!, They're roommates and Hating It, This doesn't go where you think it goes, Uniform Kink, University, University LGBT meetings, Virgin!Lucy, Wades into canon with a weedwhacker, Will author ever feel shame? Unlikely, and then it does, because, modern au - roommates, of course, painting restoration, work for your happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2020-07-20 06:58:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 26,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellajane2255/pseuds/Ellajane2255
Summary: (DISCLAIMER - I don’t own Lockwood & Co.)The Veteran and Student Shared Housing Project, or VSSHP as it was no more catchily called, was a housing project designed by the city and the Student Housing Board to prove or disprove the hypothesis that ‘housing people of similar ages from different backgrounds will be beneficial to the mental health of all involved’.‘Beneficial to mental health’ my ass, Lucy thought.





	1. •-

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jooeeeyyyyimpala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooeeeyyyyimpala/gifts).



> To Jo! You beautiful, ridiculous, amazing gift to this earth, we all love you X

Sinjar Mountains,  
Nineveh Province,  
Iraq

The checkpoint on the Western face of the Sinjar Mountains rested on the edge of a plateau on the mountain side, overlooking ancient terraced fields that slide down onto the rocky desert below.

Several SAS soldiers were standing in the area, watching the men sheltering from the burning sun beneath the sandy outcrops of rocks.

Lockwood hefted his rifle back into his shoulder, shifting the thin shemagh that was wrapped around the lower portion of his face, feeling a rivulet of sweat run down his back.

There was very little sound - just the chirping of unseen crickets and the distant volleys of mortar and gunfire, and the Yazidi men’s quiet murmuring.

It wasn’t much of a checkpoint, not in the traditional sense; there was a thin, gravelly dirt track slithering up the mountainside towards the plateau, and no proper building or barrier, just several soldiers with rifles, protecting the refugees behind them as they waited to be recovered.

“Vehicle, Captain”

Flo’s voice was muffled slightly the cloth covering her face, but Lockwood looked up, and signaled his troops to take their positions. Two men had already been passed by the car, hidden in the thin shrubbery slightly down the road.

Another two moved away from the car and knelt, whilst Flo approached the car, signalling then to roll down their window.

The man in the front seat pulled the car - a dirty, white saloon car with tape over one window - to a stop a few meters away, but made no move to open the window.

The woman gestured again, still approaching.

The man reached for something from the seat beside him, and immediately Lockwood raised his rifle. “Drop it!”, Flo yelled, raising her weapon, “drop it!”

Lockwood rushed towards the other side of the car, watching man through the sights, finger sitting safe on the trigger guard-

-when the world exploded with pure, white noise-

-sending Lockwood flying backwards across the ground, rifle flying from his hands.

Something soft and unbearably hot licked at his skin, then withdrew, leaving him-

-numb-

-Lockwood jerked up in bed, chest heaving and glistening with sweat.

The room was silent, broken only by his panting and wheezing.

He shifted about, knowing he was only imagining the vicious burning in his side, before sitting up, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

It was dawn outside, the pale, milky blue of the early morning slipping between his curtains and over his bedcovers.

That was the first nightmare for three and a half months.

Lockwood left the fading warmth of his bed, exchanging it for the coolness of the hallway. He padded down the hall, and out onto the balcony overlooking the open plan living room and kitchen.

Downstairs, now far too awake to hope to get anymore sleep, he poured himself a bowl of granola and sat on the modern, white couch, and turned on the early morning news, watching with only partial interest as some politician was grilled to a charred crisp by the hosts.

“But the state of our public schools is-“

There was a loud crash from the front door.

“Ah- shit!”

Lockwood closes his eyes, garnering all the strength he can. “Good morning to you, too”

“Fuck!”, a shrill voice cries, “you’re awake?!”

“No. I’m sleep-talking”

The short, scowling figure appeared in the front hallway by the kitchen, rucksack over one shoulder. “I was trying not to wake you”

“I’ve heard stealthier herds of elephants negotiating the Savannah”

“Oh- shut up”

He smirked slightly, hearing her stomp about on the tiled floor. For such a small person, she made a hell of a lot of noise.

“How was your sleepover?”

“Fine”

“Didn’t get drunk?”

“No”

“Didn’t do cocaine?”

“No”

He shrugged, taking a spoonful of granola. “Sounds boring”

“You’re meant to be a firefighter, why are you encouraging-“

“I’m not a cop”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I binge-watched the BBC Pride and Prejudice with Quill, and the new Star Wars, and then ate my own weight in popcorn. Happy?”

“Happier than your clogged coronary arteries, sure”

There’s the sound of a cupboard door opening and closing, and the rustle of a packet. A moment later, there was a crunching from behind him.

Glancing over his shoulder, he finds Lucy standing in her pyjamas - awful, shapeless grey things she’s repaired with ridiculous colours of thread - and crunching away on a handful of Pringles, eyes on the TV. Then, they slide down to meet his.

“What?”

“Really?”, he raises an eyebrow.

“Really what?”. She shoves another handful of crisp crumbs into her mouth.

“Crisps. At this time of the morning”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

“Because-“

“Okay, never mind”, she turned, and walked towards the stairs.

The retired Army officer rolled his eyes, watching her tromp upstairs in a pair of sliders.

“How’d you get home?”

“Quill dropped me off”

“Wow. He was sober this time, huh?”

Lucy paused, and frowned down over the glass banister. “What?”

“Well, I didn’t hear the plant pots by the door taking a pounding this time, so-“

She huffed petulantly, and a moment later slammed her door, making Lockwood smirk in triumph.

Upstairs, Lucy plugged her phone into the socket, and had a quick shower in her little bathroom, before dressing in a comfy hoodie and leggings.

When she came back, a text notification flashed up on her screen.

Gay bastard: What the fuck Lucy.

She smirked, and picked it up, just as another message came through.

Gay bastard: WHAT THE FUCK.

She smirked a little harder, and replied.

Lucy: I honestly don’t know what u r talking about.

Gay bastard: THAT LAST FUCKING CHAPTER.

Gay bastard: THATS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT CARLYLE. FIX THIS SHIT.

Lucy laughed.

She knew exactly what Quill was talking about - the latest chapter of her ‘Pride and Prejudice’ fanfiction.

A ‘what if’ she was writing, pondering what would have happened if Lizzie had accepted Darcy's original marriage offer.

Lucy did so enjoy torturing Quill, as she enjoyed tormenting all her readers. Under the guise of ‘DarcysGirl21’, she'd written far too many fics to count.

Lucy: u know the rules. One update every two weeks. I updated when u were driving.

Gay bastard: IM YOUR BEST FRIEND U WHORE I NEED TO KNOW. I HAVE PRIVILEGES.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Lucy ignored the final text, and made her way back downstairs, and back into the kitchen, ignoring her roommate who was now watching something about wildlife in the Siberian tundra, David Attenborough’s dry, calming voice wafting through the house.

“Don’t steal my coffee”, he called after her.

“Why would I want to steal your crap, freeze dried coffee?”, she called back, reaching into the cupboard for the jar of coffee grounds that she shouldn’t buy, not on her budget, but did anyway.

“Because you steal anything you can get your filthy little hands on. You’re a student”

“I resent that!”

“Show me where I asked”

Lucy let out a frustrated growl. How did he manage to wind her up so much? How could one stupid, arrogant man be that infuriating?

‘Don’t let him provoke you’, Quills voice said in the back of her mind, and Lucy took a deep breath.

She picked up the laptop from the kitchen counter where it was charging, put it in its carrying bag, and hefted it over her shoulder.

“Do you have classes today?”, Lockwood asked a moment later as she brewed her coffee. “No”

“That’s a shame”

She threw the teaspoon into the large butler sink with possibly a tad more force than necessary, hearing it clatter against the bowl already in the sink.

Her life was Hell.

Of course, it would arguably be… more of a Hell if she wasn’t living with Captain Tightass, as Quill called him.

Considering she’d probably be homeless, because rent cost more than her soul or kidneys were worth.

The Veteran and Student Support Housing Project, or VSSHP as it was no more catchily called, was a housing project designed by the city and the Student Housing Board, to prove or disprove the hypothesis that ‘housing people of similar ages from different backgrounds will be beneficial to the mental health of all involved’.

‘Beneficial to mental health’ my ass, Lucy thought.


	2. -•••

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter! 
> 
> Brief mentions of past sexual assault - from ‘he was insistent’ to ‘yeah.’ 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter!

The laptop that Lucy and Lockwood shared got quite a lot of use. 

Between Lucy's writing, Lockwood’s emails and budgeting, and Lucy’s school emails, it was getting some fairly heavy use. 

Lucy hummed to herself as she scrolled through her inbox, reclining on her bed, surrounded by plush toys. ‘Lost phone’, ‘Charity Fundraiser’, ‘Extracurricular Activities Available’, she sighed, and deleted them all. 

A new email appeared then. 

‘Art Final Project - Update’, from her Professor, Dr Martin. 

She clicked on it. 

After her Professor usual apologies for being late to their last class, she told them that a local, prestigious gallery had requested to show the highest graded pieces from the coming final project. 

Lucy's heart leapt into her throat. This was her big chance. If she could get even one of her pieces into a gallery, it could springboard her entire career! For as long as she could remember, Lucy had wanted to draw. She wanted to be an artist. 

She had to win. 

She just had to- 

“Lucy!” 

She closed the laptop immediately. “What?!” 

“Shopping!” 

The student huffed, before jumping up and grabbing her phone and purse, and jogging downstairs. 

Lockwood was stood at the kitchen counter, gathering some reusable bags, before he turned and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. 

“What?”, she asked disinterestedly. 

“Nothing. Catch”, he threw the bags at her, and she rushed forwards to grab them. 

Lockwood snagged his keys out of the bowl in the hallway, and walked to his car, parked on the driveway. Lucy, as usual, was left to lock the door and catch up, climbing into the passenger seat, and immediately lunging for control of the radio - but Lockwood was faster. 

He batted her hands away, and clicked the button for the 80’s channel, and Lucy had to repress a noise of disgust. “Really?” 

“Oh, yes” 

“You weren’t even alive in the 80’s!” 

She reached for it again, only for him to grasp her wrists in one hand and force them back. “Driver has radio privileges”. “You never let me drive!”. “Not my problem” 

The rest of the journey was in silence, Lucy staring out the window, as Lockwood drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window sill as he nodded his head along in time with the music. 

They pulled into the car park of the supermarket, and Lucy wandered off to go find a trolley. 

Inside, Lucy walked beside the trolley as Lockwood consulted the list she’d written. He frowned at it. 

“Pa-... Paz-... Lucy, what the hell does that say?” 

“... pasta” 

The man looked dubious. “Right” 

“It does! What else would it say?!”, she demanded, tossing a bag of spaghetti into the trolley. 

“I don’t know! You’re an artist, just- draw yourself some better handwriting!” 

She gasped in offence. “You take that back!” 

“No. Because you know I’m right, and your handwriting is criminal” 

Before she could retort, Lockwood was already walking away, and Lucy rolled her eyes. So childish. 

She walked down the aisle after him- and froze. 

At the end of the aisle was her ex. 

Harold Mailer. 

Mailer and her had met when he knocked her coffee out of her hand on her way to class, and had underpaid her as compensation. They hooked up at the end of her first semester; being demisexual, she was shocked to actually… well, find herself attracted to anyone - she’s never done so before - especially Harold, someone so very different to her. 

She studied art, he took social studies. She thought football was pointless, he spent all his savings on a season pass. She wasn’t ready for sex, he was insistent. 

Things had come to a head sometime in late March, when they’d been curled on Harold’s sofa - ‘a biohazard, that manky thing’, Quill had always sneered - and he’d managed to slide hand under the waistband of her leggings. 

Lucy had tensed, but said nothing, wondering exactly where he was taking this. A few seconds later, his hand had migrated beneath the elastic of her panties, too, and… there. 

She wasn’t a fan, to say the least. 

Eventually, between Mailers… uncomfortable whispering in her ear, and the unpleasant sensation of his finger, Lucy had faked… it. An orgasm. 

Mailer looked satisfied enough, and withdrew his hand, and nothing further was said on the subject. 

At least, not until she walked in to find him and a girl from her art class in bed. 

Yeah. 

Lucy leapt back, flat against the shelves of cereal, before edging slowly towards Lockwood, who was examining a box of porridge oats. 

She shuffled over to him, and he looked down with a raised eyebrow. “What the f-“ 

She reached for his spare hand, and he jerked back. “What the hell-?!” 

“Hold my hand” 

“Why?!” 

“Hold it!” 

“No!” 

She threw the box of disgustingly healthy oats into the trolley, and snatched for his huge hand. “My ex is over there, and if you don’t hold my hand, I’ll smash every glass in the cupboard at home!”, she snarled. 

He glared at her, but didn’t release her hand. 

A moment later, a waspish voice interrupted them. “Lucy?” 

They turned, Lucy plastering a shocked look on her face. “Harold? Oh- what a surprise! I had no idea you were here!” 

He laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, right back at you”. At that moment, he opened his mouth, then hesitated, noticing Lockwood - “Uh- So… what are you doing here?” 

“Shopping” 

“Right-! Right! Uh… so-... who’s this?”, he awkwardly eyed Lockwood. 

“My boyfriend. Anthony”

The taller man inclined his head slightly in a silent greeting. Mailer looked shocked. “Oh-! Your- boyfriend! Right! Okay, uh…” 

“What else do we need, Anthony?”, Lucy asked, glancing up at him. He looked down at her list - “eggs… Angel” 

Angel? Who the fuck called their girlfriend ‘angel’? 

“Right. Well, bye, Harold” 

“Uh- Uh- Bye, Lucy!” 

Lockwood, one hand still grasping hers, pushed the trolley to the end of aisle, and out of sight of Mailer - before they both released the others hand. 

“Gross”, Lockwood muttered. Lucy didn’t bother to enquire as to whether he meant her or her ex. 

They paid at the checkout, and carried the bags out into the car park. The bags were loaded into the back, and Lucy rushed back to the front of the car, leaping in and seizing control of the radio. She tuned it, finding a trashy pop station, and turning the volume up several notches. 

Lockwood climbed into the driver seat. “What the hell is this?” 

“Coldplay” 

“Cold- Who?” 

“Oh, come on, grandpa!” 

He rolled his eyes, and started the engine, and for a moment, Lucy tasted victory. 

Then, the station changed. 

Lucy's eyes widened, and he smirked. “What-?! How did you-?” 

He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Magic” 

Lucy grumbled. “I was getting inspiration” 

“Inspiration?”, he parroted irritatingly. 

“Yes. Inspiration” 

“For what?” 

“My final project” 

“Oh, well, get some inspiration from this”, he tapped another button on the steering wheel, turning up the volume, as Rick Astley permeated the air around her. Lucy groaned loudly. “No!” 

“Come on!” 

“No! What would I paint from this?! A hellscape?!” 

He chuckled lowly, and turned on the engine. With a deep sigh, Lucy leant back in her chair, trying not to deal with the fact she was getting rickrolled for the entire journey home.


	3. •——

St. Mary’s Church,   
Marylebone,   
London 

The three caskets were empty. 

Despite their work, the firefighters hadn’t been able to extinguish the blaze engulfing the car and the lorry that had collided in the underpass. No bodies had been recovered. 

The truck driver, a man in his mid 30’s with lank, dark hair that hung around his narrow, pale face, had been found to be driving under the influence of cocaine and alcohol when he lost control of the vehicle and collided with the Mercedes coming in the opposite direction. He was given a sentence of 10 years with no chance of parole. 

At the front of the church, before the altar, great bouquets of white lilies and gladiolus and ferns, spilling over the coffins and pouring towards the tiled floor. 

Anthony sat on a pew at the front of the church, staring unseeingly at the stained glass windows in front of him, watching the rainbow light fall on the blank flower petals. 

There was a slight ‘creak’ as someone sat beside him. 

Flo was a broad person, the sort of person who looked grossly uncomfortable in anything that wasn’t a sports kit of some description and running shoes. She looked so now, sat beside the boy in a suit wearing an ill-tailored black dress and blazer. 

Neither spoke. 

She toed at the ground with the tip of her shoe. “... Are you angry?”, she asked, voice unusually quiet. 

He considered that. “... I suppose I must be”, came the soft reply. 

“... I’d be angry. I think. Not that I can imagine how you feel, or anything. I don’t think anyone can” 

Anthony didn’t look at her, still staring up at the Archangel Uriel, trapped in glass. 

“Not that I can’t empathise with you. My councillor says I’m getting better at empathising with people. Maybe you should go to counselling. We could go together. There’s one near college, and we have mostly the same free periods-” 

“I’m graduating early” 

“Oh” 

There was another silence. 

“... Well, I’ll graduate too, then”, the girl replied stoically. 

“Don’t be stupid, Flo” 

“Too late for that. Like I’ve got any chance of passing A-Level Maths. Don’t think they can wait to get rid of me”, she paused, and looked at him, watching his still profile, “... What are you going to do, then?” 

He shrugged his narrow shoulders, and said nothing - but that was okay. Flo could talk for them both. She did. Frequently. 

“... I might go into the Army. I read a thing the other day that said the SAS has just opened up to women, and they’re looking for officers. I could do that. Hey”, she nudged him, “we could both do that” 

He looked at her. 

“... Sure. Why not?”


	4. -•-•

_“‘And this is all the reply I am to expect?”, Darcy croaked, moving slowly towards the fireplace, “I might wonder why with so little effort at civility I am rejected”_

_“And I might wonder why”, Lizzie began impertinently, “with so obvious a desire to offend me, you chose to tell me you like me against your will, reason, and even against your character! Was this not some excuse for incivility if I was uncivil?”_

_Darcy looked down at his boots on the carpet._

_“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you”, she said slowly, “do you think_ any _consideration could tempt me to accept the man who ruined the happiness of a most beloved sister? Can you deny that you have done it?”_

_He did not speak._

_“You cannot deny it, for it is true. You, with nothing but callousness and your own wretched self in mind, disposed yourself to destroy my sisters chance of happiness in marriage forever!”_

_There was a brief pause, the air between them pregnant with expectation, when the tall, broad man strode forwards and pinned her to the chair._

_“Mister Darcy!”, Lizzie exclaimed breathlessly, “you will release me at once!”_

_“I will do no such thing, Miss Elizabeth, until this fit of hysterics is through. You pose a danger to yourself and-“_

_“Unhand me!”, she cried, lurching forwards and colliding with him. A pair of gigantic hands gripped Lizzie’s arms, and forced her to still. “Have a care, woman!”, he exclaimed._

_She growled, and fought against him once more, struggling. Darcy’s hands tightened on her arms, the heat of him working its way through her thin muslin dress._

_“Elizabeth!”, he snarled, “Stop this-!”_

_She turned quickly, trying to dislodge him- only to find herself trapped between him and the wall._

_He leant close, pouting mouth by her ear. “If you will not behave, Elizabeth”, his voice was low, gravelly, and it made her breath catch, “I shall have to discipline you-_

The door opened, and Lucy slammed her laptop closed. 

Lockwood slowly raised an eyebrow. “... did I interrupt something?”. “No. You need to learn to knock”, she huffed, tugging her blanket around her, picking up her pot of instant noodles and forking a load into her mouth. 

His disgust was palpable. “Do you have any idea what’s in that?” 

“No. Don’t care” 

“I don’t know how you can eat that, really, I don’t-“ 

“Look”, she thumped the cup back down on her desk, still with half a mouthful of noodles, “I am a student. I graduate in a matter of months. I can’t cook. That requires time, money, and energy that I do not have” 

“Well, find some then” 

“What is your problem, jerk?!”, she exclaimed, “can’t I just eat in peace? I’m not waving my gross, disgusting, pre-prepared food under your nose-“ 

“Thank God” 

“-but you come into my room with no reason and harass me, and try and tell me not to eat. Well, news flash! I don’t have time to cook!”

“You’re too lazy”, he remarked casually. 

“I am not!” 

He raised a dark eyebrow, and leant against the door frame, pale lips curling up into a smirk. “Why don’t you get up and prove it” 

“No. I’m working on my final project. Go away”, Lucy grumbled, shucking her blanket from her shoulders over the back of her chair. 

He considered that silently, then slide away, leaving the door irritatingly open. “Prick”, she muttered, and reached across her desk for her phone, playing some Britney Spears through her speaker purely to annoy him. 

She reopened the laptop, and scrolled back to where she had been, and paused momentarily, before starting to write again. 

About half an hour later, Lucy saved her document, and stood, stretching her legs. 

Downstairs, she could smell something cooking. 

And it smelt really, really good. 

Silently, she moved downstairs, and crept towards the kitchen. 

Lockwood was stood over the stove, wok in one hand and a spatula in the other, cooking what looked like a variety of vegetables and noodles. 

The smell wafted from the pan and across the kitchen to the student, making her salivate. 

“Don’t loiter”, Lockwood said impassively, not looking up, “it’s a bad habit” 

“What are you cooking?”, she ignored his comment, walking over to stand next to him. “Stir fry”. “What’s in it?”. “Chicken, cashews, peas, broccoli, carrots, mushrooms, lime” 

She edged just a little closer. “Smells really good” 

“I know” 

“Looks good too” 

“Presentation counts” 

“You might have made too much” 

“I have leftovers for lunch tomorrow, then” 

Lucy soon realised she was getting nowhere. “... can I have some?” 

He took the wok off the stove and turned it off, ignoring her. She huffed. “Please” 

“Please what?” 

She rolled her eyes. “ _Please_ can I have some stir fry?” 

“Yes, you may” 

A moment later, he handed her a plate and some cutlery. She sat down at the table, and started to eat, wolfing down the vegetables and chunks of chicken. The firefighter sat down opposite her, watching her with distaste as she practically inhaled her food. 

She got a mouthful of noodles, slurping loudly, making a wet, damp noise, the end of a noodle hanging out of her mouth ever so slightly. Lockwood stared at her. 

Lucy slowly raised her eyes to meet his. She sucked the end of the noodle into her mouth. “... what?” 

He tore his eyes away from her; it was like a car crash in slow motion. He just couldn’t look away. “Revolting”, he muttered. 

“It’s- it’s really good”, she swallowed. He looked at her. 

“... Thanks”, Lucy murmured. 

He watched her for a moment longer, then speared a piece of broccoli. “It’s nothing… Just start doing the laundry every once in a while” 

“I make no promises” 


	5. -••

_ Lucy: I can’t believe I actually agreed to draw u  _

_ Gay Bastard: It’s because I’m your muse ;))  _

_ Lucy: Ok  _

Lucy rolled her eyes, and gently tossed her phone onto the carpet, going back to her canvas. She gently drew her pencil across the surface, capturing Quill’s likeness from the large photo she had taped on the wall opposite. 

It was, easily, one of her favourite photos of Quill; wearing a plain, dark tuxedo as he looked into a full length mirror - with a pair of killer red heels on his feet. 

“Carlyle” 

She twitched in shock, and dropped her pencil. “Jesus-!” 

Lockwood smirked, somehow suddenly stoop d behind her on the little balcony area above the living room. “So-” 

“I keep saying - stop doing that! It’s freaky!” 

“Right” 

She huffed, and bent over to pick up her pencil. “What do you want?” 

“My friends are coming to visit-” 

“You have friends?”, she asked, eyebrows shooting up, “wow, I had no idea. Good for you, buddy. How much do you have to pay them?” 

He ignored her comment. “They’ll be here in a little while, so just keep out the way, okay”

“I’m sensing that wasn’t a request-” 

A huge hand clapped down hard on her shoulder, and she jolted. “That assumption would be correct” 

“Well, unfortunately for you”, she turned, and smirked, “this is as much my house as it is yours, so you have no business bossing me around-” 

“You owe me”, Lockwood cut her off. 

“I- what?” 

“You. Owe. Me. For the supermarket incident-” 

“Oh- no! No way! No-” 

The man’s smirk grew. “Oh, yes” 

Lucy glared at him, and he looked grossly smug in triumph. 

He straightened his back, standing to his full height. “So, if you would be so good as to stay up here, stay quiet, and stay out of sight, that’d be great”. She grumbled. “Right” 

He paused, opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the sound of the doorbell. The girl turned back to her easel, hearing her roommates footsteps receding down the stairs.

She focused on Quill’s legs, catching the shadows of the folds within the fabric, the faint outline of his skinny legs within the trousers. She switched pencils several times, changing textures to better suit the thickness or texture of materials or shadows. 

Downstairs, there was the sound of voices, and laughter, then the shuffle of people entering the house. Lucy scowled, concentration breaking. Peering over the balcony, she could see Lockwood, as well as two unfamiliar men. 

The two strangers took a seat on one of the couches, whilst her roommate disappeared into the kitchen. 

The taller of the two, with olive skin and dark hair, whistled, looking around the room. “Woah! I like what you’ve done with the place, Lockwood”. The firefighter looked back from the kitchen, kettle in hand at the sink as he filled it, “Oh, thanks. I had nothing to do with it, though. Just turned up, and… here it was” 

He nodded appreciatively, taking in his surroundings. The other, a fair, blond-haired man who was probably in his mid-30’s spoke next; “just you here, then?” 

“Yeah, pretty much” 

Lucy bristled at that. 

“What’s that bra doing on the laundry line then?”, he asked with a kinked eyebrow, making the other snicker, and Lockwood paused.

“Who are you keeping hidden, then, Lockwood? Someone good?” 

“Or maybe not - maybe that’s why he’s trying to hide her” 

“Aww, don’t you trust us?!” 

“No”, Lockwood replied plainly, emerging from the kitchen with three mugs of tea, “I don’t. Martin, that’s yours in the blue mug”. “Ooh, ta” 

“So, was there a reason you’ve dropped in?”

The dark haired man sat up. “Actually, there was”. From the depths of his jacket, he produced a square of cream-coloured card, which he handed to Lockwood. 

It was a wedding invitation, written in shimmering gold ink. Lockwood got no further than ‘you are cordially invited’, when he looked up. “You’re getting married?” 

He grinned. “Yeah I am” 

Lockwood smiled. “Wow, finally found a woman who’ll put up with you for longer than three months, Oscar?” 

“Shut up, says you” 

The firefighter rolled his eyes. “At least I’ve made it to two years. Anyway, who’s the unlucky lady?”. “Oh, we met in a bar. She walked over, slapped my ass, and it’s been true love ever since”.

He examined the invitation more closely. “Woah- next week? I thought you were supposed to hand these things out like, six months in advance?”

Oscar and Martin both looked sheepish. “Well… we knew that you and Ava broke up a week or so before you moved… and it seemed a bit insensitive”, Martin muttered awkwardly. Oscar continued; “plus… we weren’t sure if you wanted to keep in touch or if you were making… a clean break” 

Lockwood considered that. “... valid enough, I suppose” 

“So…”, Oscar sounded cautiously optimistic, “... you’ll come?” 

“Well, I’ll have to find someone to cover my Saturday shift… but I’ll certainly make an effort. Is uniform appropriate?”. Oscar grinned, “you know it- oh, and you can bring your not-girlfriend-roommate or whoever that bra belongs to, we’re doing plus ones”

“Oh, she won’t be-” 

Lucy stood up from behind the banister. “A plus one? Will there be a bar?” 

All three men looked up. “Ooh, I like her already”, Martin murmured. 

Lockwood fixed her with a stern look. “You will not be my plus one-” 

“What?! Yes, I will! Who else will you take?” 

“You’re not coming with me”

She pouted, and Oscar and Martin ‘aww’ed. “Lockwood! Don’t be such a moody bastard! Let your girl come!” 

“No way! Not happening! And she is not-” 

“Yeah, Lockwood”, Lucy chimed in, “let  _ your girl _ come!”. They all cheered, and Lockwood placed his head in his hands. “Fine! You can come! But don’t make a spectacle of yourself!”

She smirked. “Would I  _ ever- _ ” 

“Yes. You would. You do. Frequently” 

“Lockwood”, Martin declares chivalrously, “if  _ you _ don’t take her as your plus one, then  _ I _ will!” 

“You really don’t want that, believe me”, he muttered, surrendering to the inevitable. 

  
  



	6. ••—-

Army Recruitment Centre, 

Holloway, 

London 

  
  


“Age?” 

“Eighteen, Sir” 

He scribbled it down. “Height?” 

“6’2, 187 centimetres, Sir” 

The scratch of a pen. Someone coughed outside the door. “Weight?” 

“152 pounds, Sir” 

The pen hesitated. “152?” 

“Yes, Sir” 

“That’s almost underweight for someone of your height, Mr Lockwood. You’ll have to gain some mass” 

Lockwood swallowed. “Yes, Sir” 

The man finished writing and reread the sheet. “Well, aside from that, everything seems to be in order. You’ll have to pass the physical exam, of course, but your A-Level results are more than enough to get you a place” 

He sighed in relief. “Thankyou, Sir-“ 

“Of course. Here is the paperwork for the Army officer selection board assessment. It’s in Westbury” 

“Thankyou, Sir”, he took the paperwork, briefly looking it over. 

The man offered him a polite, encouraging smile. “We hope to see you soon, Mr Lockwood” 

“I do too, Sir” 

There was an exchange of goodbyes and best wishes, and Lockwood stepped out of the office. Flo was lounging in a chair opposite, looking up as soon as he exited. “Well?” 

He brandished the paperwork, and she grinned. “Amazing! I knew they’d love you. You’re just the sort of person they want - from an old family, military heritage, tall and elegant, went to Eton-“ 

“I went to Harrow, and for your information, I didn’t want to go, my mother made me-“ 

“- and rather camp” 

Lockwood scowled. “Having a better standard of hygiene than most men does not make me camp, it makes me clean, _Florence_ _Bonnard-_ ” 

“Don’t use that name! Never use that name!” 

He smirked as they walked out together. “Anyway, I’m going to have to gain weight before we join. The guy said I was almost underweight” 

“I’ve been saying that for years and you’ve never paid any attention” 

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a _woman_ -“, he said with a grin, and she gasped in outrage, elbowing him in the stomach. 

The play fighting went on until they reached a nearby Chinese takeaway, where Flo ordered enough food to feed at least four people, and they went and ate it in the park, watching in companionable silence as they city began to glow, humming electrically in the dimming evening light. 

  
  



	7. •

“Lockwood!  _ Hurry up!  _ We’re going to be late!”, Lucy yelled, sat at the counter in the kitchen, methodically removing the badges from her cropped white denim jacket, chucking them in the change bowl beside her. 

There were footsteps down the stairs, and the sounds of hard soled shoes across the wooden floor. “We are not going to be late, and if we are, it’s going to be because you couldn’t be bothered to take the stupid pins off your jacket last night-“ 

“Oh, shut up” 

She looked up- and then immediately looked back down. 

His uniform was dark blue, almost black, made of a tightly fitting jacket and trousers, with a red stripe running from top to bottom. He had a thick white belt over the top of the jacket, with a large circular gold buckle. The buttons of the jacket matched, and were the same colour as the small silver badge on the front of the peaked service cap he had to hide most of his black curls. There was a line of medals on the left side of his chest. 

But most interestingly, was the long, highly polished sabre hanging from his left hip. 

“You’ve got a sword”, she remarked dumbly.

Lockwood glanced at her, adjusting his spotless white gloves. “Very observant, Carlyle. I’m surprised you noticed the three foot long sword hanging from my hip-”

“Okay, discussion over” 

“Have you got everything?” 

“Yes” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes” 

“Because I refuse to come back” 

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Yes” 

“Right. Phone?” 

“...”, embarrassed, she stood from her barstool and rushed upstairs, trying to ignore his smug smirk. 

The firefighter moved over to the counter, picking up his phone and shoving it into his pocket, glancing by chance into the change bowl where Lucy had been tossing her badges. He picked one up and inspected it. 

It was a striped flag; black, grey, white, and purple. He didn’t recognise it, turning the small badge over between his calloused fingers. He dropped it back into the bowl, and brought out his phone, opening up the internet. 

‘Black grey white purple flag’, he typed, then hit ‘enter’. 

‘Asexual pride flag’, the Google suggestion box read. Lockwood frowned slightly, highlighted the word ‘asexual’, and pressed ‘look up’. 

‘ _ Asexual, adjective: without sexual feelings or associations.’ _

“Right”, Lucy’s small heels clicked down the stairs, “I now know I definitely have everything, so don’t even bother asking” 

He turned his phone off. “Right. Get out, then” 

-:-:- 

Overall, the wedding was what Lucy had expected: a nice reception in a converted glasshouse, a little distance outside of the city, set in a small woods on the grounds of a National Trust house. 

There  _ was _ a free bar, lined with white lilies and ferns to match the rest of the decor. The bride looked beautiful, and the food was great. 

Lucy spent most of the evening sat beside Martin, keeping out of Lockwood’s way as he skulked around the room, chatting and drinking and scowling across the tables at her. 

His dirty facial expression apparently did little to dampen the affections of the women who seemed to flutter around the firefighter like moths to a rather ill-tempered flame. Lucy wished there was some way she could earn them or his true character - ‘don’t do it! He’ll yell at you for not putting your socks in the hamper! He eats granola without dipping it in chocolate spread! He has a budget planning notebook!’ 

But, Lucy contented herself to sulk in the corner of the room beside Martin, the two of them throwing back a variety of wine and cocktails, munching on whatever drifted past on the silver butler trays whilst Martin lamented about his recent break up. Lucy nodded sympathetically, tossing back another sangria. “I’m so sorry for your loss”, she murmured, patting his arm, then scowling into her glass when it somehow was empty again. 

“It’s horrible!”, he wailed, “she was perfect… I got a tattoo of her name and everything…” 

The student sputtered on a delicate canapé. “You- What?!” 

“I got a tattoo of her name on my-“ 

“Your arse?” 

“Yes!”, he finished his mojito, and nudged the glass away, “a whole bunch of us- when I was still an officer-... we all went to a tattoo parlour, and got them… it was well fun… even Lockwood let loose a bit” 

Lucy stared at him like he’d just told her Martians had landed in the cloak room and were eating their outerwear. “He-... Wow, I can’t imagine that. He didn’t get a tattoo, did he?” 

Martin managed a nod as he beckoned a waiter closer, snagging a Prosecco from the looming tray. 

She gaped. “He didn’t” 

“He did!” 

“Where?! Of what?!” 

“Here”, Martin took a slug of his new drink, and tapped his right tricep, “got the SAS cap badge. In black, kinda small… it was the most we could convince him to get. I think he should have got Betty Boop”. He shrugged. “But hey, what do I know. I’ve got Donald Duck smoking a doob on my thigh, too” 

“You’re just a walking ode to bad choices, aren’t you?” 

“Damn straight” 

Lucy smirked, and stood, somewhat unsteady, before heading between the tables towards the bar. 

She reached the bar, and waited for a bartender to notice her, leaning on the top and humming as she inspected her nails. 

Something warm brushed past her back, , and she had to suppress a shiver. 

“Excuse me”, a low voice rumbled, and Lucy’s drunken brain purred. 

“You’re excused”, she murmured softly, and then glanced over her shoulder. 

“Oh”, Lockwood sneered, still behind her, “and here I was thinking I was disturbing a lady” 

The odd, warm feeling that had engulfed her with the first contact fell away almost instantaneously. “And here I was thinking you were someone important”, she barbed, and stood up straight, “what do you want?” 

“Well, if you’re buying, I’ll have seven obnoxious cocktails” 

“I’m not” 

“Then I’ll have a beer” 

She stepped aside, gesturing to the ample space on either side of her at the bar to order. 

“Don’t drink too much”, he muttered, “You’ll embarrass me and yourself” 

“Don’t patronise me” 

“When you stop acting like an overgrown child, of course I will” 

“I hate you”, Lucy hissed. 

“The feeling is very much mutual, I assure you” 

The bartender clearly recognised Lucy, as he started making another sangria. 

“So…”, Lucy traced a whorl in the wood of the bar top, “that redhead has been hanging off you the whole evening… going to follow up on that?” 

Before she could lift her new drink, a much larger hand wrapped around the stem of the glass, and it slid down the bar away from her, towards Lockwood, who took a slow sip. 

“Just for that, this is mine now” 

“No! Give it back-!”, she reached for it, but he fended her off, taking a sip. “Don’t think I will” 

She glared at him. “You owe me!” 

“Mm, don’t think I do…”, his voice was low, and he seemed impossibly tall, leaning half over her, and Lucy felt something catch in her stomach. 

Lucy folded her arms across her chest like a petulant child. “Go and flirt with that redhead. I don’t want you here” 

He smirked, and shrugged, and walked away, taking her sangria with him. The bartender, who had apparently been watching their whole encounter, raised an eyebrow at her. “What an ass” 

“You can say that again” 

He stepped closer to the bar, directly in front of her. “With guys like that, the best thing to do is make it clear they don’t affect you, even if they do. Really gets under their skin” 

“You think so?” 

“I know so”, he picked up a towel and started running it around the rim of a glass to clean it, “I’ve certainly dated enough of them over the years” 

Lucy felt her face get hot. “Oh- no! We’re- we’re not- dating” 

“Look, I’m no one to be judging anyone’s lifestyles. But you could get a better hookup than him. He might be hot, but he’s a jerk” 

Deciding that it was simply easier to nod and smile, Lucy did just that, and bolted from the bar, leaving possibly quite a good deal more money than she meant to tip in her haste to leave. 

It didn’t take long to find Lockwood, or their coats. They climbed into the car, and for once Lucy was the more sober of the two. 

She focused her attention firmly on the winding tarmac in front of her, the monotony of driving a familiar road allowing her mind to drift. 

“What’s a hook up?”, she asked suddenly. 

Lockwood, who had been staring intently out of the window into the darkened fields, his service cap in his lap, turned and looked at her. “What?” 

“What’s a hook up?”, she repeated. 

His gaze seemed to have a physical weight, and it was as if he’d settled it entirely on her profile. Lucy shifted in her seat. 

“Why?” 

“I just heard the term and didn’t recognise it. That’s all” 

He stared at her for a moment longer. “... did Martin say it?” 

“No” 

“Who did?” 

She shrugged, not taking her eyes off the road. “Can’t remember” 

“Right” 

There was a silence. 

“It’s like dating, but without… the commitment”, Lockwood said after a moment, “you have sex, sometimes do stuff together, like dates… but you’re not exclusive. You can see other people. It’s more about the sex than the emotional connection” 

“Oh” 

He turned to look back out the window. 

“... have you ever had a hook up?” 

He glanced at her this time, gaze weighing on her only momentarily. “Full of questions this evening, aren’t we?” 

Another shrug, her hands tightening incrementally on the wheel. 

“Just making conversation”

“Really? I was always under the impression it was impolite to discuss your sex life in public” 

“This isn’t public, it’s your car” 

“I suppose it is” 

Another silence. 

Lockwood shifted, crossing his legs at the ankle in the footwell. “... I have. Once or twice” 

“Once or twice what?” 

“Had a hook up” 

“Oh. When?” 

“During my years of service, mostly” 

Mostly. 

“Are they fun?” 

“They can be” 

She nodded. A silence fell. Lockwood went back to his staring, and Lucy kept her eyes on the point just ahead of the car where they hadn’t shifted from. 

It was only when they’d pulled into their driveway, and Lockwood was getting out of the car that Lucy realised the radio was still set to his radio channel. 


	8. ••-•

“... where did you get that cake?” 

Lucy looked up from her plate, fork in one hand, pen in the other, hovering over a plate of misshapen vanilla sponge and her notebook respectively. The shock of hearing a voice she hadn’t heard in… almost two days made her pause her chewing. “Huh?” 

“That cake. Where’s it from?” 

She speared a nice mixture of once fluffy, now slightly crispy icing and drying sponge and popped it in her mouth. “The wedding” 

“... that was four days ago” 

She nodded. 

“...”, Lockwood marched over to the dining table, took the plate, ignoring her ‘Hey!’, and strode into the kitchen. He put his foot on the pedal of the bin, and dispassionately shook the cake from the plate. It slid off unappealingly, and disappeared into the bin liner. 

“I was eating that!”, Lucy yelled, and he pulled a face. “Lucy. That cake is at least five days old now” 

“It tasted okay!”. “It was just sugar and calories at this point”. “And your point is?!” 

The firefighter sighed, and dropped into the chair opposite her, still in his tee and fireproof trousers. “You’re going to be so sick” 

She lifted her chin. “No way, I have an iron stomach. I’ll have you know I once ate a whole jar of pickles with whipped cream” 

The man looked revolted, but said nothing. Lucy went back to her notebook, jotting down plans for her final projects in her hectic, disjointed writing. 

Lockwood set about removing his boots, unlacing then from the eyelets slowly, stewing in his thoughts. 

He didn’t want to believe that Lucy had kept the cake from the wedding. Didn’t want to, but could. Where she’d kept it, he didn’t know; He certainly hadn’t seen it in the fridge. 

He thought back to the wedding. It had been pleasant enough; old faces and new, catching up with people he hadn’t seen in years. He’d attracted a good deal more… feminine attention than he’d intended, as well as possibly having a few too many beers. 

The last half an hour of the wedding was a bit of a blur. Two images and two phrases seemed seared into his brain - Lucy and Martin, side by side, sat at a table in the corner of the glasshouse, whispering to each other conspiratorially.  _ ‘I hate you’  _

And the second - Lucy’s face silhouetted against the flicking neons of a set of traffic lights, red to yellow to green, as she stared straight ahead.  _ ‘What’s a hook up?’  _

He removed one boot and started working on the other. 

Perhaps he had been too harsh - he’d sooner she ask him slightly awkward questions than taint their shared browser history with her sexual queries. But she always seemed so… defensive around him. 

Lockwood remembered the split second change when he brushed against her at the bar; her tone and mannerisms, her countenance, they all underwent an immediate polar shift the moment she realised it was him and not someone else. 

He had no intentions of hurting her, or treating her badly, or of whatever she suspected him of plotting. 

Despite this, a slug of guilt began munching on his stomach lining. Was she truly  _ that _ wary of him?

“If you really want cake that badly, you could have just asked. We have all the ingredients”, the firefighter didn’t look up from his shoes, removing his second boot. 

“What?”, Lucy’s pen paused, and she looked up, scanning his profile as if suspecting foul play. 

“I could just make you a cake” 

“You’ve been working for the last, like, 50 hours”

He wafted his hand. “If I sleep now I’ll fuck up my sleep schedule” 

“... what kind of cake?” 

He shrugged, and stood, moving to the kitchen. “Just a plain sponge. We don’t have any chocolate or anything” 

“... and what do I have to do to get this cake?” 

She stood too, and crept after him. “Put the oven on at 170 and then stay out of my kitchen for the next 40 minutes” 

“I can do that”, the girl muttered, fiddling with the dials on the oven, then shuffling out. 

Back at the table, a new email had just come through on her school account, and a brief glance revealed a chance at extra credit. 

‘Model needed for later class!’ 

She clicked on the email, and skimmed over it. Professor Martin was offering extra credit to anyone who could find a new model for the class, as the original person had had to cancel at short notice. 

Lucy drummed her fingers against the table.  _ ‘Young adult male, preferably fit, any race or ethnicity. Will be paid well for their time’  _

She knew several young males - Quill, George, a couple of the guys from the LGBT meetings at university… and- 

“Lockwood…?”, Lucy said in sing-song voice, standing once more and creeping over to the kitchen door. 

“Mm?”, he didn’t look up from the mixing bowl of ingredients. 

“... are you free on the first weekend of next month?” 

“That depends” 

“On what?” 

“Why, and who’s asking” 

“They need someone to model for my class- they’ll pay you! And I get extra credit! And it’ll only be for an hour or so-“ 

“No” 

“But-“ 

He placed down the bowl and dusted off his hands. “I have a shift on Saturday, and it’ll be a nightmare to find someone to cover it. Get Quil to do it. Or Martin. He’ll bend over backwards for you” 

“That’s not true”, she paused, and decided to embellish the truth, “besides, they specified a  _ fit _ young male” 

“Well, I suppose that  _ would _ discount both of them”, Lockwood muttered. 

“So you’ll do it?”. “On one condition”. “What?”. “You have to do the laundry for the rest of the month-“. “What-?! No!” 

He shrugged, smirking lightly into the bowl as he measured out the sugar on the scales. “Guess you’ll have to use your imagination in class, then” 

Lucy pouted, but resisted the urge to stamp her foot, knowing he would only mock her. “Oh- Fine! Fine! It’s only three days!” 

The smirk grew. “Guess I’ll be going to the gym tomorrow, Saturday,  _ and _ Sunday”. “Shut up. Don’t make me regret asking you” 

He advanced on her ominously, and Lucy suddenly tensed. She was penned between Lockwood’s tall form and the fridge. 

She scowled. “What are you doing?”.  _ ‘And have you always been that big?’  _

The fireman kept advancing, not stopping until her back was flat against the refrigerator. “Someone’s got an attitude today”, he murmured, voice low. ‘And since when did your voice sound like that?’ 

… and he raised his hands, and smeared flour over her cheeks. 

Lucy shrieked, and he laughed, turning and walking back to the counter where he was working, leaving Lucy slumped against the fridge, trying not to question why the feeling of his calloused fingers against her face had made her knees tremble. 


	9. •••—

Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, 

Camberley, 

Outside London

  


It wasn’t a particularly long drive from Marylebone to Camberley, just over an hour with Flo behind the wheel, even in her clapped up red Ford Fiesta. 

They’d arrived just before 10am, pulling up in a car park. She turned off the engine, and looked over at her passenger. 

Lockwood looked back at her. 

“Ready?”, she asked. 

“As I’ll ever be” 

They got out, and unpacked their luggage - Flo had two small suitcases, and Lockwood a single duffel bag - and hauled them towards their accommodation; a long, two storied white building, with Grecian columns holding up a triangular portico, a flag pole with the Union Jack flying high above the roof. 

They signed in, and were directed to their separate accommodation. Flo started chatting to another girl who was waiting, laughing and chattering away. Lockwood stood silently, a short distance from the other boys waiting, and watched the trees outside the window. 

Lockwood’s room was on the top floor, in the corner, overlooking a parade square. 

It was a smallish, comfortable enough room, with two windows. There was a sink in the corner, with a mirror, a wardrobe, a narrow metal cot with one pillow, a desk and chair, and a shelf. 

He swung his bag off his slim shoulder and onto the bare bed, and began to unpack his meagre belongings. 

After a while, a few basic belongings had been scattered around the room; a washing and shaving kit by the sink. Some books on the shelf. A photo frame on the desk. A jacket in the wardrobe. 

There was a polite knock at the door, and it opened to reveal a large, balding man in field uniform. “Welcome to Sandhurst!” 

“Thankyou, Sir”, Lockwood inclined his head respectfully, managing a polite smile. 

“And you must be Anthony Lockwood”. “Sir” 

“Good to finally meet you”, he glanced around the room, “I say, you seem to be travelling rather light” 

“Only the essentials, Sir” 

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Of course, of course. Dinner is at 18:00 hours, we meet outside the front door. Punctuality is key” 

“Yes, Sir”. “Good man”, with a toothy grin, he closed the door behind him and joined his colleague, a wiry, grey haired man in the hall. 

“So?”, the grey haired one asked, “any promise?” 

“Not a lot. Captain Dales is very pleased with some of the female recruits, especially some blonde who passed the physical with flying colours” 

“What about Lockwood? His old man was big news in the RAF” 

“Lockwood… the skinny lad in the corner?” 

“That’s him”, the grey haired man held the door open. 

“He’ll be out of here before the Sunday of Hell Week, you mark my words”, he muttered, the two of them reaching the stairs, “this ain’t the place for him” 


	10. —•

It was absolutely pouring with rain, as it often did, Lucy found, not on the days when she wanted it to rain, when she could be curled up inside under several blankets with her laptop, writing, but when she was wearing her favourite skirt, and had forgotten her umbrella. 

As it was, she had managed to wedge herself firmly under Quill’s umbrella, the two walking in a companionable silence from his lecture in the History department. 

The LGBT society meeting room seemed to glow through the perennial dark of a rainy evening. They rushed towards it, through the courtyard of the college building, up the three steps to the door, and stumbled inside. 

After the usual hugs and greetings, Lucy dropped with a relieved sigh into her usual seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs beneath a window, opposite George. Before she could do anything else, however, the door flew open, admitting a young man with bleached blond hair in a bright purple shirt. “They’re here!”, he yelled, brandishing a flat cardboard box. 

There was a spike of activity and excitement as the box was torn open, and it’s contents spread about the room. Lucy frowned. “What’s all this about?” 

George removed his classes and rubbed them on his baggy jumper. “The fire brigades charity calendar. They do one every year. It sells really well, makes a lot of money for the children’s ward at the hospital” 

There was an alarmed squawk - like a parrot being trodden on - from somewhere in the crowd, and they both looked over. Quill was on top of the table, clutching the box above his head. “Heathens! All of you! Bloody disgraceful!”, he yelled, before someone grabbed the leg of his skinny jeans and he was rather unceremoniously dragged from his perch. 

Holly perched on the arm of Lucy’s chair, watching the carnage with an unimpressed raised eyebrow. A few seconds later, Quill crashed out of the crowd and almost onto Lucy’s lap. 

“Aha!”, he brandished a flat object, “victory!” 

He tore the plastic shrink wrap off the calendar like a starving man trying to get into a packet of biscuits. The others peered closer, George adjusting his glasses, making them glint. Holly looked curious but not overly invested. Lucy peeked around Quills shoulder as the two squished into the armchair. 

They opened the calendar, ‘ooh’ing and ‘ahh’ing over the photos; even Lucy could appreciate the humour. Burly, hairy, tattooed men posing like 50s pin-up models, all seductively bent legs and, steamy winks, coy grins. 

They teased Holly when she blushed at the toned woman posing for April with a fire hose, and shamed Quill for admitting he’d do just about any man they’d seen so far. 

The redhead smirked to himself, turning over the page- “woah! Now _that_ is a beefcake!” 

George peered over at the photo, as did Holly, as well as a couple of other students who’d congregated around them. Lucy looked up absently. 

“They always said August was the hottest month!”, someone jeered. 

“I’d let him rescue my cat any day!” 

“ _Those_ are porn star abs, right there” 

Morbidly curious, Lucy looked over Quills shoulder. 

And she choked on her tongue. 

Posing entirely naked, as far as she could tell, behind a waist-high fire hydrant, hands placed one over the other to cover his mouth, eyebrows arched with playful shock and embarrassment, was Lockwood. 

“It’s obviously photoshopped”, she managed.

“You know”, Quill hummed, “he looks familiar. What do you think, Luce?”. He held up the calendar for her. 

“What- no! Never seen that man before in my life!”, she pushed the calendar away, averting her eyes to the rain-lashed window. 

He looked back at the calendar. “Huh… I could have sworn that I’d seen him before- Wait- isn’t he your roommate?” 

“Uh-“ 

“Check the back!”, someone was saying, and Quill flipped quickly to the final page. “A.J Lockwood!”, Quill exclaimed, “it _is_ him!” 

“Wh- no! No-“ 

“Oh my god!” 

“Does he walk around topless at home?!” 

“How do you know it’s photoshopped- have you seen him naked?” 

A group was beginning to form around them, Quills shrill exclamations loud in the small room. 

“It’s a shame that you’re ace-“ 

“Demisexual, thankyou”, Lucy huffed in response to the only question she felt dignified enough to answer, “and no! I only know it’s photoshopped because he’s- he’s mentioned that he has… you know… scars” 

“So they photoshopped them out?”, Quill thrust the calendar into the hands of a nearby photography student, “is this real?” 

The guy inspected the photo, before shaking his head. “They’ve airbrushed the chest, and stretched the fire hydrant, but apart from that, it’s very much real” 

Quill contemplated the photo, Lucy looking over his arm in silence. 

“... come on, Lucy, even you must be able to admit that he’s hot” 

“His… face is very… symmetrical”, she acquiesced reluctantly, and Quill pulled a hideous face at her. “Oh, come on, Luce, you’re an artist for Gods sake” 

She shook her head resolutely. 

“... seriously, though, how did you know about the scars?” 

Lucy shrugged, trying to look anywhere but Quills face. “He was in the Army. He’s just… mentioned them a couple times” 

Quill looked thoughtful. 

“... he was in the SAS, or something. Commandos. I don’t know” 

“Ohhh… I like a man in uniform” 

“Quill, you just like men” 

“Hm. Touché” 

The conversation mercifully shifted then, topic changing to some of Quills previous hook ups. The calendar somehow landed in Lucy’s lap. 

She noticed the tattoo Martin had mentioned on his tricep, and touched it lightly with a finger. 

Her rucksack was open on the floor by her feet, and it would be so easy to just… 

In one deft movement, Lucy slid the calendar from her thighs into her rucksack, secreted it behind her laptop, and zipped the bag closed. 


	11. ••••

The front door slammed. “I can’t believe that- idiot!” 

Lucy looked up from her blank sketchbook page. “Good evening to you, too” 

Lockwood stormed inside, throwing down his coat and keys. “Absolute moron! Why the hell can’t he just-“, there was the slam of something hitting the counter top in the kitchen, “ _ listen!” _

She got up, and slowly walked to the kitchen door. “Bad day?”. “The worst” 

“What happened?” 

“Stupid bloody boss won’t listen to me! I suggest an idea, and he won’t listen! But,  _ oh _ , if  _ Roger _ says an idea, then it’s the best thing since- since- since-“ 

“Sliced bread?”, she volunteered. 

“Yes!”, he huffed, and leant over the sink, placing his forehead against the cupboards over the sink. For a moment Lucy thought he was going to be sick, but he just rested his head there, and drummed his fingers rapidly against the countertop. 

She shifted on the spot. “Do you… need anything?” 

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, “No… no… I’m fine” 

“Okay… I’ll be upstairs” 

He made a vague noise of agreement. 

Lucy collected her stuff up off the dining room table and trudged upstairs. A while later, she could hear the shower running. 

She stared at the space over her desk - filled with magazine cuttings, posters, postcards, and photos - and found her eyes becoming unfocused. 

She’d been ‘working’ on her final project for over a week now, and she’d barely manage to produce two sketches; one of Quill in heels, and another that she was less happy with, of a small songbird perched on the washing line in the garden. 

Lucy sighed. 

Joanna - Mailer’s somewhat new, mostly not-so-new-they-were-dating-before-him-and-her-broke-up girlfriend - hadn’t stopped posting vaguely artistic pictures of Starbucks coffee, paintbrushes, and expensive sketching pencils. 

Inwardly, Lucy wondered what sort of terribly demeaning, horrible job she was having to do on the side to afford all coffee and top-label supplies. 

Harold had never helped her out financially, or ever really given her a present, (they’d dated between Valentines and sometime in May, a set of dates Lucy could almost believe were engineered so he could avoid buying her anything), so she found it hard to believe that he was in any way helping her. 

Of course, it was entirely possible that he  _ did _ have money, and had just spent it all on Joanna whilst he’d been officially with Lucy. 

She hoped it was a really,  _ really  _ bad job. 

Under the pretence of searching for inspiration, Lucy leant back in her chair and started scrolling through Pinterest. 

A little while later, the door started to open, then stopped. Then there was a knock. 

“Yeah?” 

“Tea” 

She stood up, and walked to the door, slowly opening it; Lockwood was stood outside, freshly scrubbed, damp hair artfully styled as always. He had a cup of tea in each hand, and was holding one out to her. 

“Are you going to take it or just stand there looking at it?” 

She narrowed her eyes at him, and took it. “... Thanks” 

‘You’re welcome”, he took a sip from the other mug, “so how’s your project coming along?” 

“Oh- great! Great! Yeah… great” 

Lockwood smirked at her, and she sighed. 

“Not… so great” 

“Why not?” 

“I just… don’t have any decent ideas. I think of one, and then realise a million other people have already drawn that exact thing. It’s just… not off to a great start” 

He took another sip of tea, and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I’m still modelling for you on Tuesday. Can’t say anyone has ever drawn that before” 

She laughed wryly. “Guess not” 

He gave her a reassuring look. “It’ll be fine. You’re more than capable” 

“... Thanks” 

He nodded once, and strode off down the hallway. Lucy watched him go, and ducked back into her room, shutting the door after her. Her rucksack that hung on the back of the door bounced slightly. She stopped, looking at it. 

Retrieving it from the back of the door, she sat on her bed, unzipping the bag and reaching inside. Her hand emerged clutching the calendar. 

She opened it, and flipped to November, avoiding looking into the eyes of the familiar face, propping it up against the pots of pens and paintbrushes - and began to draw. 


	12. ••••-

Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, 

Camberley, 

Outside London

  
  


Lockwood wasn’t a shy person. 

He never had been, ever since he was a child, he’d never been ashamed of himself or his body, never been one to shy away from a challenge or something new. 

Feeling self conscious was a new feeling for him entirely. 

The sounds of gym equipment whooshing and whirring drowned out Lockwood’s thoughts, as he stood in the entrance to the gym - a small, glass-fronted room to the end of the gymnasium - and wondered what the hell he was supposed to do. 

“Locky!” 

He looked towards the source of the voice, and saw Flo in one corner, lifting a barbell over her head. As he moved towards her, it occurred to him that, if he didn’t already know Flo, he’d have assumed the weights on the rod had to be fake - but he knew they weren’t. 

There were three or four men gathered around her, cheering her on. She apparently finally reached the limit of her stamina, and with a groan, half-placed down and half-dropped the barbell. 

He stopped in front of her, waiting for her admirers to disperse. She grinned at him. “So?” 

“So what?” 

“How much can you lift?” 

“Uh… I don’t know?” 

She pursed her lips, and wrapped a hand around his triceps, fingers almost meeting. “Not much” 

He batted her hand away, and folded his arms across his chest nervously. “Strength isn’t everything”. “Well can you run?”. “It’s the only reason I passed the physical test” 

She pondered that for a moment. “... how do you feel about boxing?”. “Boxing?” 

She raised a pale eyebrow. “There’s an echo in here, have you noticed? Anyway, come over here” 

Flo led the way over to a punching bag hanging from the ceiling in an empty corner of the otherwise busy gym. She handed him the set of gloves tucked into it. 

“Punch it”, she instructed, holding the bag still. He looked at her in surprise, “what? Now?” 

“No. How’s tomorrow at nine? Yes! Now! Swing!” 

He fumbled, and pushed at the bag with a fist. 

The blonde eyebrow slowly rose. “Oh, I think my bunny slippers just ran for cover. Put some effort into it! Come on!” 

He punched again, a little harder this time. 

“Again!” 

He swung at it again. 

“Harder! Hurt it!” 

Another blow impacted on the red leather, this time with a gratifying  _ ‘thud’ _ . 

Lockwood kept swinging blows until he felt like his arms were going to drop off, and he removed the gloves. “What was that supposed to do?” 

“Nothing, if you just do that. I want you to come in here every day and punch this thing as many times as you can”, the blonde instructed. 

“What’s that supposed to achieve?” 

She pinched his arm, and he yelped loudly. “It’ll start toughening you up, wimp”, and with an affectionate shove, she went back to her weights. 


	13. ••

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter!
> 
> Brief mentions of past sexual assault - from ‘I mean, yeah, I might not have keyed a car, but-’ to ‘... can I key his car again?’ 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter!

“Professor Martin?” 

Nothing. 

“Erm, Professor Martin?” 

The middle-aged woman didn’t look up from her laptop. 

“Madam!” 

The woman looked up, flustered. Lockwood cast her a rather impatient look, not moving his head from his fist as he perched awkwardly on the stool, one foot on the floor and the other on a low bar between two legs of the seat. He was leant slightly forwards, scowling at her. “Are we quite finished?!” 

Oh, and he was naked. 

Lucy nibbled the end of her pencil, keeping her eyes on the sketch pad in front of her, contemplating where she needed to add more shading, and if her lines were the proper texture. 

The tattoo was now very clear on his tricep, and Lucy almost wondered how she’d missed it. 

He looked largely the same as the photo in the calendar, except that in reality, his chest was crisscrossed with a variety of different scars; white ridges of raised tissue, dashing across the skin, across the defined lines of the muscles of his abdomen and hips. 

Privately, she noted that Mailer had never had that. 

She pointedly looked no further down than his hips. 

“Just a few minutes longer, Mr Lockwood, please! Then you may move”, she placated. He made a noise somewhere between a grumble and a sigh, but obeyed. 

Lucy was just adding the final touches to her sketch when she caught a waft of cheap, offensive fragrance, and had to clear her throat. She glanced up, and found Joanna sitting right beside her, glaring in irritation at her sketch pad. And as if to add insult to injury, she was wearing Harold’s football shirt. 

“God…”, she muttered, and tucked some hair behind her ear, “couldn’t they have found someone easier to draw?” 

Lockwood, who had been staring at the floor somewhere around his feet, suddenly looked at Joanna. 

Lucy snapped her pad closed, and without looking at her, simply remarked; “if you can’t even draw from a reference, then maybe this isn’t the degree for you” 

Joanna straightened. “Oh, please, like you were able to draw those scars” 

“Yes, actually, I was, because I’m a competent artist who is here because of her skill and ability, not her daddy’s cheque book” 

Joanna was suddenly on her feet, but Professor Martin was between them. “Ladies, I will separate you if this hysteria continues. Joanna, stop complaining, this is a required portrait sketch that will contribute to your grade. Finish your sketch or you will default to a fail. Mr Lockwood has been very kind in volunteering to model for us, the least you can do is be grateful” 

Joanna sat back down. 

“And Lucy”, she turned to her, “don’t insult your colleagues” 

“Yes, Professor” 

The woman walked back to her desk. As soon as she was out of earshot, Joanna turned to her and hissed; “you’re just jealous” 

Lucy sneered. “Of what exactly?” 

“Me and Harold”, the other girl took a moment to inspect her nails, “it only makes sense. I feel so much safer with him around, especially after all those muggings around the city” 

“I was more jealous that time that pigeon crapped on you at the faculty picnic” 

“You take that back!” 

“Or what? I’ve already vandalised your boyfriend’s car, I have no issue doing it to yours” 

Joanna’s face went red beneath her tacky foundation. “Tart”, she muttered, and moved back across the room. Lucy took a moment to sun herself in the glow of her victory, before looking back at Lockwood. He was looking at her, and faintly smiling. 

And Lucy found herself smiling back. 

-:-:- 

“You do not deserve to be paid that much for sitting around without any clothes on” 

“Speak for yourself, Carlyle, I get paid the same for dragging someone out of a burning building, and this was twice as nerve wracking”. Lockwood looked positively obnoxious as he inspected his cheque, before secreting it in his jacket pocket. 

Lucy glimpsed her watch and suddenly stopped halfway down the steps of the art department building. “Oh-! I left my umbrella! I’ll only be a minute”. Without looking at him, she rushed back inside. 

Lockwood rolled his eyes without venom, and swaggered down to the pavement and over to the car park, before he suddenly became aware of the unnerving sensation of being observed. He looked up. 

The tarmac parking lot was only half full; a couple of students were unlocking their bikes from a rack in the far corner beneath some beech trees. A guy and a girl were climbing into a car to his left. A faculty member of some sort was trying and failing to parallel park. 

In short, no one was looking at him. 

He frowned slightly, and continued towards his car. 

“Excuse me! Hey!” 

He stopped, and turned. 

The girl from Lucy’s class - Jade? Jodie? - was hurrying towards him, looking precarious in heels and a crop top. Lockwood raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you?” 

“Hi, yeah- I think so. Um- sorry, you were just modelling for my art class, and I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Joanna” 

“Lockwood” 

She adjusted her bag over her shoulder, folding her arms beneath her chest. “Is there a first name to go with that?” 

“There is. I don’t use it” 

“Oh” 

He tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and looked down at her. A single, dark eyebrow was arched. 

“So- um- what are you doing here?”, she muddled. 

“I just finished modelling for your class” 

“Oh- I- I know- I meant-“ 

“I’m waiting for one of your classmates” 

“Oh- is she your girlfriend?” 

Lockwood didn’t move. “Why?” 

“I was just curious-“ 

“Being nosey, you mean” 

Joanna took a step back. “I’m sorry?” 

“I said, ‘being nosey, you mean’”, his lips were set in a dour line. 

She huffed, foot scraping on the ground. “I was just trying to be friendly” 

“Much appreciated” 

She looked rather taken aback. “Sorry to bother you, then”. He gave her a dazzling smile. “Not at all” 

Across the car park, one of the large glass doors at the front of the art building opened, and Lucy emerged, clutching her folder under one arm and her umbrella in the other hand, rucksack on her shoulders- and stopped abruptly. 

That was her roommate. 

And her worst enemy. 

Talking. Together. 

A huge number of scenarios flashed through Lucy’s brain like one of those children’s books where you flip the pages to make a moving image.

If Lockwood was hooking up with Joanna, she’d have to move out. That was certain; she’d move into Quill’s tiny apartment. She’d move in with George. God, even _Holly_ , but the thought of waking up to Joanna’s revoltingly smug face at the breakfast table every morning was just- 

She had to get out of the house tonight. In an hour. _Now._ She didn’t care who he hooked up with, she didn’t, just anyone but- 

Lucy’s stomach clenched sickeningly when she contemplated the two of them emerging from Lockwood’s room together. The thought bothered her, and it had to be because sex bothered her, it bothered her like nothing else, not because- 

“‘Scuse me”, a professor said gruffly, edging his way around her, making her jump out of the way. 

Lockwood must have heard the door opening somehow, because his eyes swivelled over, and he visibly brightened. 

Lucy rushed across the car park, watching Joanna hurry away and feeling relief flood her veins and arteries like a drug. 

“There you are. Right. Come on”, he unlocked the car and opened her door for her so she could dump her stuff in the footwell. 

He walked around to his side and climbed in, adjusting the mirror and clicking his seatbelt into place. “Who even is that girl?”, the man asked with a touch of humour. 

“Joanna”, Lucy put her seatbelt on and spoke without looking up. 

“Oh, I’m well aware. She introduced herself” 

Lucy said nothing as they pulled out of the parking spot and onto the road. Then, softly; “bitch” 

Lockwood shot her a questioning look as they paused at a traffic light. She looked back at him. “What?” 

“What’s your problem with her? I mean, alright, she’s not the nicest, but she’s not-“ 

“She fucked my boyfriend. In my bed. Then reported me to college police when Quill and I vandalised his car. I was charged with damage to property and had to go to court to defend my scholarship” 

“... oh. Right”, he cleared his throat, “I didn’t see anything about a criminal record when they gave me your files at VSSHP” 

“No, I didn’t get one. The judge decided I had ‘extenuating circumstances’, and found me not guilty” 

“Oh” 

There was a silence. 

“... they deserved it”, he said after a few moments. Lucy looked at him. “The vandalism, I mean” 

“Yeah. I guess” 

“I mean, yeah, I might not have keyed a car, but-“ 

“He pressured me into… not sex, but…”, she gestured vaguely with two fingers, “yeah” 

“Oh” 

Another silence. 

“... can I key his car again?” 

She looked at him once more. “What?” 

“I mean, it’s not like I’m involved. They wouldn’t suspect me. It would be like that bad film. You know? ‘Who Threw Mama From The Train’? I do a crime for you, you do one for me? Yeah?” 

She laughed. “Thanks, but I’ve had enough brushes with the law to last me for a while for now” 

“Okay” 

The silence was somehow softer now. 

He drummed his hands on the steering wheel, and looked in the rear view mirror. “I mean it, though. If you want me to… rough him up or something. Not hurt him, not really, just give him a scare-“ 

“Listen-“ 

“-or I can actually hurt him. Your choice. As I said, I wouldn’t be a suspect, so-“ 

Lucy laughed again, “really, listen, I’m okay-“ 

“-if you wanted some sort of freak yachting accident to mysteriously occur, I know a guy who owes me a favour-“ 

“Who are you?! The Godfather?!” 

They pulled into the supermarket car park, and Lockwood grinned at her, and in a terrible, nasally Italian accent replied; “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse… get out of my car, we’re here” 

Lucy laughed and climbed out, grabbing the shopping bags from the glove compartment. 

Lockwood lingered momentarily by the car, watching her walk towards the trolley shed, and decided they needed some chocolate biscuits. 


	14. •—-

Lucy knew how expensive proper art supplies were. 

She had to buy them fairly regularly, and had read possibly every article there was on how to make your paints last for longer, or how to restore copic markers, or how to keep paint brushes in good shape. 

Which was why she was so angry at herself that she’d wasted so much paint. 

She scrubbed furiously at her skirt in the sink, praying to whatever deity was out there that the white paint hadn’t infiltrated the fibres, and that it was salvageable. The grey water swirled down the plug hole, and Lucy glared at it. 

She didn’t know what had come over her; she was usually so careful. 

She remembered working on adding colour to the sketches of Lockwood, and getting the calendar out for reference, having to examine it for a moment, looking at the shadows around his shoulders and throat, and the almost unnoticeable patch of hair that led from his navel to where the fire hydrant blocked her view- when she’d suddenly found her palette, wrong way up, on her lap, a warm white substance seeping onto her legs. 

Which was how she’d ended up here, hunched over the sink, in her tights, with a nail brush, trying to scrub white oil paint out of her third favourite skirt. 

It wasn’t going well. 

She sighed, and abandoned her endeavour. 

It wasn’t even like she could have a shower to get what had seeped through her tights onto her knees off - her shower had bitten the dust the morning before, and the plumbers hadn’t exactly been helpful talking to ‘a lass’ until she’d forced the phone into Lockwood’s hands and told him to explain, so they’d agreed to come tomorrow. 

It wouldn’t be the first time that, as a student, she’d had to wash in a sink, but she’d rather hoped the previous time had been the last. 

Unless… Lucy slowly turned away from the kitchen sink, and peered out into the driveway. 

It was empty. 

She could use Lockwood’s bathroom. 

Yes, he’d never know, would he? She could be in and out before he was even back, and he wouldn’t have a clue. She grinned. 

Grabbing her skirt, she rushed upstairs, and approached Lockwood’s room at the end of the hallway, a bathroom and a spare room away from hers. 

She slowly eased the door open, and peeked inside. 

The room was… it looked like the rooms you saw in department store magazines. Clean, undeniably nice, but it seemed… unused. Unlived in. 

There was a double bed, with dark sheets, neatly made with the duvet tucked in, with hospital corners on the sheets, and a blanket neatly folded and placed perfectly level across the foot of the bed. There were some books lined up neatly across the dresser, along with some hair… stuff, a comb, a brush, and cologne. A mirror hung above the bed. 

Not wanting to dwell any longer on the fact that there were photos of him and several friends in many interesting places, (mostly topless), she rushed across the immaculate carpet, and into the bathroom. 

It was mostly identical to hers, with the exception of a small window above the toilet, and a laundry hamper, so it didn’t take her anytime at all to strip off and get the shower running. 

It was only once Lucy was under the water that she realised she had neglected to pick up any of her own shower stuff, and slowly picked up the bottle that most resembled shower gel from the shelf. 

She cautiously popped the cap open and took a sniff. 

And then another sniff. 

And another. 

Finally, probably a little bit high on the smell, Lucy put a fairly generous dollop on her hand, took another sniff, and started to actually wash herself. 

A familiar - well, it  _ would  _ have been familiar,  _ if  _ she’d seen it - silver car pulled into the driveway, and a sooty Lockwood stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him, marching up to the front door. 

Lucy couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the water, and was, ashamedly, too busy enjoying the smell of Lockwood’s body wash to pay attention. 

It was only when the door handle clicked, and started to swing open, that she looked up. 

She screamed. 

The figure in the door jerked abruptly, and released the door, before quickly slamming it again. 

There was a silence. 

Several moments later, a shame-faced Lucy shuffled out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel, looking at her feet. 

“...”, neither of them spoke, until Lockwood cleared his throat. “Wha-... why were you in my shower?” 

“I- I had to wash. Mine’s broken” 

“The door has a lock” 

“... I didn’t know”, her throat was going dry. 

He looked at her. She tucked some soggy hair behind ear. 

“I didn’t-... didn’t see anything, if that’s- what you’re worried about”, he muttered. 

“Oh. Oh. Right. Yeah. Good. Right” 

“Yeah”, he awkwardly rubbed a sooty arm. 

“Um… you should- shower. Use the- the shower. Yeah” 

“... you’re stood in the doorway” 

She paused, realised she was indeed blocking the doorway, and stepped awkwardly into the bedroom and out of the way. “Sorry” 

He cleared his throat, and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. 


	15. •••••

Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, 

Camberley, 

Outside London

  
  


“Locky, when you said you wanted to toughen up”, Flo panted, breath pluming in front of her like smoke, “this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind” 

Lockwood was careful to keep his feet flat on the icy road, the snowy air nipping at his exposed legs and arms. Flo was a short distance behind him, running to keep up with his comfortable jog, huffing and panting. The two of them were careful to stick close together in the early morning gloom. 

“Don’t lag behind, Flo” 

“I hate you!” 

He laughed. “Of course you do. That’s why you got up at half four to run with me” 

She cursed loudly, sticking her foot in a puddle of slushy snow. 

Lockwood laughed, and a moment later, a sopping wet - too wet to have been so naturally - woolly hat slapped him across the back of the head, and he cried out. 

It was Flo’s turn to laugh- until a large lump of snow smacked her in the face. 

She shrieked, and lunged at him, knocking the two of them onto the nearby snow-covered grass. Lockwood’s legs were immediately wet and numb with the perishing cold, his tee soaked through. 

“Go back to the Air Force, RAF boy!”, she yelled, pronouncing ‘RAF’ as ‘raf’. “Why don’t you go back to the Thames, mud rat!” 

Flo shoved a chunk of snow in his face, and he managed to inhale some of it, spluttering, as she cackled. 

Lockwood was on his feet and racing towards the buildings across the grass. She scrambled up. “Hey! Get back here!” 

The two figures raced across the snow. 


	16. -•-

“What are you doing in my rucksack, Carlyle?” 

Lucy almost dropped the bag. 

“Nothing! I was just- nothing!” 

“‘You were just nothing?’”, he raised an unimpressed eyebrow from the front door, “can’t say I’ve heard of anyone doing  _ that _ before” 

She straightened. “I was looking for a knife” 

“You’re going to a theme park. Why do you need a knife?” 

“For self defence!” 

He snorted. “Forget it. I won’t be an accomplice to the murder of Mickey Mouse” 

She scowled, “for your information, there have been a number of muggings around the city, and I value having my purse and phone un-stolen, thankyou very much” 

“And you need a knife because of that?”. “Yes” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea how to use one properly?” 

“It can’t be that hard. You just stab them with it if they get too close!” 

He stared at her - then sighed heavily. “Look, if you’re really that worried, come to the gym with me tomorrow-“ 

“I don’t like where this is going” 

“-and I’ll teach you some self-defence” 

She paused. “You’d do that?” 

He shrugged. “I’d sooner do that than be an accessory to murder by providing you with a weapon” 

“... fair point” 

Lockwood checked that the knife was still inside before zipping up the bag. “Just come with me tomorrow, I’m leaving at eight” 

“... thanks” 

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Don’t look too far into it”, the unbothered set of his lips became a smirk, “you might get the wrong impression. Might start thinking that I care about you or something” 

“Yeah. Imagine that” 

-:-:- 

The gym was not Lucy’s territory. 

To quote Stanley Kowalski, it wasn’t ‘her territory’, mainly because she’d never set foot in one. 

Her territory was Quill’s spare bedroom with the ridiculously oversized TV where they watched movies, that one stool in the coffee shop by her university, the top two shelves of her shared fridge with Lockwood. The gym did not appear on the list. 

She didn’t feel welcome, and they hadn’t even stepped inside yet. 

Lockwood pushed open the glass front door, and stepped inside, a duffel bag hanging over his shoulder, Lucy shuffling along behind him in the only workout clothes she owned - a vest top and yoga pants - feeling horrendously out of place. 

The twiggy brunette on the front desk clearly recognised Lockwood, because she looked up from the computer and simpered pathetically. Lucy narrowed her eyes incrementally, and positioned herself between the desk and the firefighter. 

Don’t ask her why. 

They entered the actual gym, Lockwood leading the way across a large room filled with workout equipment and panting people, to a smaller glass fronted studio. 

He dumped his bag in one corner, and pulled a couple of the thicker mats into the centre of the room. “Right, if you get your shoes off, and any jewellery, then I’ll show you some basic stuff” 

She nodded, and set about doing that. 

Lockwood stretched his arms above his head, then toed off his shoes, and stood on the mat. “The most important thing to remember about self defence”, he began, “is to remember that you are not trying to knock out your attacker, you’re trying to create distance. Ultimately, the goal is to escape” 

“Okay” 

“Second thing to remember is that no two situations will be exactly the same. You might practice what to do if you’re grabbed around the waist, but the time might come and you’re grabbed by the hair, or by the wrist, or wherever. So you have to improvise” 

Lucy nodded. 

“Now, attack me” 

She frowned. “What?” 

“I said, attack me. Come on” 

She stared at him for several seconds longer, then, taking a running start, lunged at him. 

It seemed to require no effort at all for him to simply brush her aside and onto the floor. 

He grinned at her wickedly as he offered her a hand up. “Nice attempt, but… not quite” 

The next hour or so was spent with Lockwood showing her the basics of self-defence, teaching her a number of different moves. 

She’d be bruised, battered, and thrown to the floor in a variety of ways - but… she was smiling. 

Lockwood smiled down at her. “Do you think you’ve finally got that?” 

“I-...”, she took a deep breath, “... yeah. I think so” 

“Great work”, he pulled her up, and patted her upper arm, “fancy some coffee on the way home?” 

“Yeah, let me just…”, she groaned loudly, and stretched, her joints popping. He walked a short distance away, and paused, before turning. She glanced at him. 

“Think fast!” 

“Wait, wha-“ 

He wrapped his arms around her thighs, lifted her, and tossed her over his shoulder so that she dangled precariously. 

Lucy shrieked. “You arsehole-!” 

Laughing, Lockwood moved his hands to her thighs, and then placed her down again. She narrowed her eyes at him, stepping rapidly backwards. His hands moved upwards and away- brushing her behind. 

He felt the tips of his ears go red. 

The girl didn’t seem to have noticed, having already started putting her shoes on. 

Lockwood hurriedly pushed the mats back into the corner and got ready to go, regulating his breathing and keeping his eyes away from her. 

_ Pull it together! She’s just some girl!  _

He inhaled heavily. “Ready?” 

“Yep!”, she appeared beside him with a smile. 

_ See? Just some girl.  _

The firefighter pushed open the door for her, and let her lead the way outside. 

_ Yeah. Just some girl… some girl who wears a thong under her yoga pants _ . 

He swallowed heavily, Adam’s Apple bobbing. 

Lockwood felt like such a pervert for noticing, but he’d known the moment he’d accidentally brushed her butt. 

Lucy climbed into the passengers side seat and dumped her bag by her feet. “We still getting coffee?” 

“Uh- yeah, sure” 

“Because we could do that, or… ice cream” 

He cleared his throat, sliding the key into the ignition. “Which would you-“ 

“Ice cream” 

  
  



	17. •-••

Lockwood didn’t know what had woken him, but he was awake. 

His room was still dark, no light filtered between the curtains. He closed his eyes, sighing- when there was a ‘ _ thud’.  _

This time, he opened his eyes and sat up. 

It had come from down the hallway, towards Lucy’s room, and the bathroom. Silently, he slid out of bed, and padded towards the door. The firefighter stood to one side of the door and listened. 

Outside, there was a soft ‘ _ whump _ ’, and a grumbling sound. He frowned.  _ What on Earth-  _

Lockwood moved quickly back towards the bed, and knelt, taking out a long wooden box. He opened it, and removed a long sword from the velvet interior, and pushed the box back under the bed. In a number of long strides he was back beside the door.

The man shoved it open, and lunged out onto the hallway. 

He, personally, couldn’t think of many things scarier than a 6’3 ex-SAS officer, in his underwear, wielding a sword. 

There was a bundle on the floor, midway between Lucy’s bedroom and the bathroom. 

He slowly lowered the sword. “... Lucy?” 

With one hand still gripping the sword, he reached across the hallway and flipped on the light. 

Her legs were covered in blood. 

Lockwood covered the distance between them in several long strides, and crouched down. He felt his training begin to take over. “Can you hear me, Lucy? Do you understand me?” 

There was no response. 

He placed the sword down beside them, and grasped her shoulders. Her head rolled back slightly, her eyes opening but not entirely registering his presence. “Urgh…”

“Lucy, what’s happened?”. “... Mmm…”. “Has someone hurt you?” 

She seemed to consider that. “... No… No… it’s…”, the girl looked down, and suddenly perked up slightly, “oh-... oh no. No- no!” 

Lucy tried to get up, and move past him towards the bathroom, but he was faster, standing, and restraining her. “No”, he said sternly, and she reluctantly stopped, “tell me” 

“... it’s my period” 

“Your-?” 

She tried to move again, but Lockwood was relentless. “Just your period?”. “...”. “ _ Lucy _ ”. “Yes, okay?! It’s gross, I know, but I wasn’t expecting-“ 

“Actually, I’m just relieved you haven’t been shot. This is…”, he took a steadying breath, “okay, go get cleaned up. I’ll strip your bed. We’ll sort out what comes next when you’re done. Okay?” 

For a moment, the student seemed once again stunned - probably the blood loss, Lockwood thought - but then she nodded wordlessly, and hurried off to the bathroom. 

Lockwood watched her go, watching the door click shut before he picked up his sword and walked into her room, turning on the light. 

Any rational human being, upon entering a room and seeing a unmade bed, covers and sheets soaked with fresh, bright red blood, would probably have screamed and fled the room. Lockwood, however, was not a rational human being. He sighed. “That’ll be hell to get out” 

He set about stripping the bed immediately, and threw the covers in for a cold wash, along with Lucy’s pyjamas that he’d collected from her in the bathroom, and gave her a fresh, clean set from her room, and a hot water bottle. 

When he came back upstairs, he found her hovering anxiously at the end of the hallway, outside her door. “Do you, um…” 

Lockwood raised an eyebrow. 

“... have… any blankets? I won’t get any-  _ you know _ on them, I promise, and if I do, I’ll pay you for them, I swear-“ 

“What?” 

“... you’ve taken all my bedclothes” 

“Yes. They were soaked in blood, Lucy” 

Her cheeks coloured. “I- I know, and I’m- im sorry that you had to- touch them” 

“Lucy, I was in the army for six years, a bloody bedsheet isn’t even in the same realm as the worst thing I’ve seen or touched. Really, it’s alright. I’m more concerned about having you pass out again” 

“Ah, that’s normal”, she said flippantly. He blinked. “Passing out is normal?”. “Well, going woozy is. I’ve taken some painkillers, so I’ll be okay, if I can just have a blanket or two-“ 

The man stepped forwards. “Don’t be ridiculous. Take my bed” 

Lucy spluttered. “Y-yours?” 

He nodded, “of course. You’ll be in pain again in a few minutes, you’ll be more comfortable in my bed, with proper sheets and whatnot” 

“Lockwood, seriously, you can’t just give me your bed-“ 

“Don’t be daft, of course I can”. “No you can’t!”. “Can. Am. Have”, he opened the door to his room, and gestured her in, “off you go” 

When she didn’t respond, Lockwood looked over at her. She’d paled, and started to lean forwards, her arms over her stomach. Without really thinking about it, he dropped the hot water bottle, and lifted her, one arm beneath her shoulders and one beneath her knees, before hurrying into his room. 

The man set her down carefully on the spot where’d he’d been laying a short while before, and then retrieved the hot water bottle. 

Without thinking, he tucked her the duvet in around her. 

She stirred slightly, wincing, before wrapping herself around the new source of heat, disturbing a lock of hair that fell across her face. 

  
  


Lockwood reached out to brush it away, but his hand stopped above her peaceful face. He must have thought better of it, because he pulled his hand back, and shut the door on his way out. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	18. -••••

Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, 

Camberley, 

Outside London

  
  
  


“And you want to go into the Parachute Regiment, do you?” 

“Sir” 

“Hmm. Why?” 

“It was my grandfather’s regiment, so I understand the duties and responsibilities of a parachutist, and what you’re looking for in a soldier, and I believe that I’m exactly what you’re looking for” 

The man - a short, bulky man with a red face and fiery red hair, who up until then had been stoically disinterested in what Lockwood had to say - looked up from Lockwood’s paperwork, and laughed incredulously. “Oh, you are, are you?” 

“Sir” 

“And why do you think that?” 

“I don’t think that. I know it” 

He considered him for a moment longer, then chuckled. “I heard that your old man was something important in the Air Force. Air- marshal- captain- something or other” 

“Air chief marshal Lockwood, Sir” 

“Mm. Yes, that was it. So why are you here and not at Cranwell? Wouldn’t you be more at home in the RAF?” 

“No, Sir” 

“No?” 

“Sir” 

The man stared at him a little longer, then leant back in his chair, hands on his stomach. “You are quite the card from what I’ve heard, Lieutenant” 

“Isn’t that what you look for in a parachutist?”, Lockwood stayed sitting perfectly upright in his chair, “a ‘card’?”

“It is”

Lockwood smiled lightly. 

“We will contact you with your results in the coming week, Lieutenant”, the man offered him the paperwork, and Lockwood stood and took it. They saluted, and the younger man walked to the door. 

“Lieutenant” 

He stopped and turned. “Sir?” 

“Keep up the good work” 

He smiled lightly once again. “Sir” 

He stepped outside and closed the door. He took a deep breath, and let his shoulders slump somewhat in relief. Flo was waiting on a chair a short distance away, and she leapt up and rushed over. “How’d it go? Are you in?” 

“... ‘keep up the good work’” 

“Oh my god, we’re in!” 

For the first time that day, Lockwood let himself smile genuinely, white teeth glinting. “We are” 

“Oh my god, oh my god… I can’t believe it! This is like-“ 

“Lieutenant Lockwood, is it?” 

They both stopped and turned. 

At the end of the hallway, there was a tall, wiry man with salt and pepper hair, and shocking blue eyes. Lockwood stood up straight immediately. “Sir” 

The man beckoned him, and disappeared into a room on the right hand side of the corridor. 

He cast a confused look at Flo, before hurrying down the hallway to the door. 

He glanced quickly around for any sort of sign or placard, but there was nothing except a winged sword, captured in black paint, in the centre of the door. 


	19. —

Lucy knew she wasn’t in her bed, but, oddly enough, she found that she didn’t care. 

Whoever’s bed she was in… they smelt  _ good.  _

She nosed at the pillow for a moment longer, then yawned, stretching, and opening her eyes. 

This was Lockwood’s room. 

She remembered it from the Shower Incident, as it had been dubbed, and now here she was. In his bed. 

The house was quiet, the only sound the muted chattering of birds in the garden and the sound of a lawnmower somewhere on their street. 

Was he at work? 

She sat up, ignoring the slight twinge in her lower stomach, and walked to the window overlooking the driveway. His car was there.  _ So he had to be here somewhere…  _

Downstairs, the glass sliding doors - the ones leading into the garden - opened and closed, and someone was singing to themselves as they walked around the living room. She moved towards the door, slowly opening it and padding out onto the hallway. 

“... oooh, I wanna dance with somebody... “, the faintest strains of Lockwood’s voice drifted upstairs, “... I wanna feel the heat with somebody… yeah…” 

Lucy felt a smile creep across her lips. “... yeah, I wanna dance with somebody”, she stood at the top of the stairs, “with somebody who loves me!”. There was a clatter in the kitchen, and Lockwood’s face appeared around the kitchen doorframe. He smiled. 

“Feeling better?” 

“Yes”, she looked down at her bare feet, peeking out from the bottom of a pair of pyjama bottoms that definitely weren’t hers, “... I… thankyou. For… helping me. Last night” 

He disappeared back into the kitchen, the room that she entered a moment later. Whitney Houston was playing from a small, portable speaker on the side as the man washed out a mug at the sink and placed it on the side to dry. “It’s no problem, Lucy. It wasn’t a big deal” 

“It’s not, though. You didn’t have help me” 

Lockwood smiled, seemingly to himself. “I had a moral obligation to help you. I like to think that you’d help me, if I ever needed help” 

“... I would”

“Tea?”. “Yes, please” 

A little while later, and they were sat opposite one another at the dining table, each nursing a mug of tea. Lucy was feigning interest in one of the coasters set out on the wooden surfaces, trying to ignore the firefighter as he lit a couple of the candles between them. 

He blew out the match, dropped it in the lid of one of the candles, sat down, and sighed contentedly. Lucy finally looked up, and glanced outside. “You’ve tidied up the garden” 

“I have. It was starting to look like a jungle out there. I think we might have a tiger by the pond, so I’ve called the pest control people”. Lucy laughed, and Lockwood smiled, watching her as she closed her eyes to enjoy her tea. 

“Mm. There’s sugar in here. I thought we ran out?”. “I went to the store earlier, and did some errands while you were asleep. Boring ones” 

She nodded, pondering his rather odd choice of words for a moment, but didn’t comment on it. “Any more to do?” 

“A couple. I need to mow the lawn still”, he stood, “do you need anything before I go?” 

Lucy shook her head, smiling a little. “No, thanks” 

He finished his tea, and walked outside. Lucy took a moment to retrieve her phone from her bedroom, and dropped onto the sofa in the living room. 

Outside, Lockwood was starting up the mower, walking back and forth across the grass. She watched him, bobbing his head lightly to the music through his head phones. 

He wasn’t such a bad guy. 

He wasn’t that bad at all. 

A little rough around the edges, but who wasn’t? Lucy knew she was. Quill had his faults and edges. George was just… a straight line. One long edge. Holly probably had some edges, but covered them up with elegantly fluffed curls and expensive makeup that she always looked good in. 

He hadn’t freaked out about her period, either, like Mailer had done - and all she’d done was leave a sealed box of pads on the bathroom counter. 

Yeah. 

Lockwood wasn’t a bad guy. 

In her lap, her phone vibrated. 

She glanced down. Her screen lit up, displaying a new text message, from a familiar but unsaved number. 

‘WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MY CAR’ 

Lucy couldn’t help her smile. 

Quill’s words flickered back into her mind - ‘all men are dogs, Lucy, but some of us are pedigree’ 

She deleted the message. 

He was a good guy. 


	20. -•

Lucy wasn’t waiting up for Lockwood. 

She wasn’t; the TV was on, playing some bodice ripping historical drama that Lucy felt obligated to watch because Quill Had been raving about it. She’d made herself dinner - poached eggs and some of the seedy bread that Lockwood always bought. So, she had no reason to wait. 

The canvases stacked neatly on the coffee table seemed to say otherwise. 

She pointedly didn’t look at them. 

Lockwood had left about eight, wearing a slightly smarter version of his usual white collared shirt and dark trousers, with a black greatcoat over the top. 

He’d looked nice. 

She’d waved at him as he exited the house, and it had only been once he’d been gone for about 15 minutes that she remembered she needed him to look at a commission she’d done for a local church, that would also be a part of her final project. 

It was a set of canvases to be displayed in a chapel; a series of soldiers in different uniforms of the last century or so, the first one kneeling on the ground, and then the figures slowly rose until the last figure was standing, looking up at the sky. 

Lucy had done her best to research the uniforms, but she still wanted Lockwood seal of approval. 

Not that she cared what he thought. 

Because she wasn’t waiting up for him. 

She tugged her bathrobe a little tighter around herself. 

The clock on the wall said it had just gone midnight, and Lucy felt herself start to droop. A news programme came on the TV, repeating the news that it had been reporting earlier, then the weather, then sports, and then another terrible 90s comedy started. 

The world outside the house was still silent and dark, and Lucy realised that she would have to confront an unwelcome thought. 

Lockwood wasn’t coming home tonight. 

He’d probably met some beautiful lady in a bar - the kind of lady who looked _good_ in those spray-on looking dresses that Holly wore, who could do winged eyeliner, and had different shades of lipstick for different outfits - and was heading back to her apartment to do-

… that. 

Not that she cared. 

Not that she cared what that woman looked like in her tiny dress, or with her expensive lipstick. 

Lucy adjusted the stretched, baggy grey top of her pyjamas. 

She doesn’t care at all. 

Unless he’s bringing his lady friend back here. 

Lucy suddenly tensed. She needed to move; not that she’d know, but she couldn’t think there were many bigger mood killers than walking in and finding your ridiculous roommates ensconced on the sofa in her godawful hand-me-down pyjamas and oversized bathrobe. 

It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just one night - but Lucy knew it wouldn’t be _just_ one night. They’d come back, do… _that_ , which would be when most one night stands would end. But Lucy knew Lockwood, he wouldn’t let her just leave, he’d offer to drive her home

And for all she knows, maybe he likes morning- 

Then he’d make her breakfast, because that’s the sort of stupid thing he’d do. And then do _that_ again. So, maybe by… midday? By midday, the _hussy_ would be gone, and Lucy would be free to leave her room without fear of bearing audio witness to her roommate making the blob with two backs.

She had to move. Urgently. 

Her arms emerged from the robe, and she planted them on the sofa, with the full intention of moving… before she sank back into the plush cushions. 

What was the point? 

She lived here, too. If Lockwood wanted to fill _their_ house with hussies, he could at least look her in the eye whilst doing it. 

She pressed the button to change channels with admittedly more force than necessary. 

-:-:- 

Lockwood felt as though he was getting old. 

He’d just felt awkward sitting at the bar between his friends, nursing a drink. He hadn’t wanted to dance. He had smiled politely when his mates pulled him in for a picture. 

He unlocked the front door, watching Martin’s car pull away down the street and into the darkness, headlights fading. 

He removed his coat and shoes, hanging them up on the peg beside Lucy’s. 

The house was almost silent. An odd, jaunty piano tune was coming from the darkened living room. He crept quietly inside. 

There was some old Wild West film on the TV, the grainy white light casting a soft glow across the living room and its furnishings, as well as the bundle of terrycloth on the sofa, a head of dark hair emerging abruptly from the pile. 

Lockwood watched the movie for a moment, before walking over and turning the TV off. Lucy didn’t stir. 

The house was now utterly silent. 

Momentarily, he thought back to the bar - thumping music, dimmed lights, dark furnishings, glasses hanging above the wooden bar, distorting the white light and throwing it across the room. 

He’d almost leapt out of his skin when a voice had suddenly come from behind him. ”Hi… haven’t seen you here before” 

She’d seemed nice enough; Rosa, she’d introduced herself as. She’d laughed at his halfhearted jokes, nodded attentively whilst he spoke, carried on the conversation when trailed off. Just the sort of person Lockwood thought he liked. 

But then he realised that, apparently, he didn’t. 

“So… listen, I have a room in the hotel, like, a five minutes walk down the street. Or I can come to yours…” 

And then he hesitated. 

“.. ah, that’s very flattering. You’re a very attractive lady, but I’m not looking for that” 

And as she finished her drink and slid off into the darkness, Lockwood found himself asking exactly what it was that he _was_ looking for. 

The figure on the sofa stirred, and Lockwood considered it, before taking the thick blanket off the chair at the end, unfolding it, and gently covering her, tucking it around her. 

When he stood back up, he noticed the canvases on the table, beside a couple of half-empty mugs, and a plate with toast crumbs on it. 

The top painting was impressive. He examined the soldier on it, standing wearing a uniform that Lockwood intimately familiar with. 

He looked between the artwork and the girl on the sofa, and was about to step away when he paused. 

Had she been-... 

Lockwood almost chastised himself aloud for even thinking it, but… 

Perhaps, in some other life - one where she wasn’t a bratty art student with authority problems, and he wasn’t the churned out remains of a man who, too many times had stared Death in the eye and won - she’d been waiting up for him. 

A ridiculous thought, and he knew it. 

She wouldn’t wait up for him. 

-:-:- 

Lucy awoke with a start. 

The living room was still dark, as she’d left it, but the TV had been turned off. 

There were no sounds except the rushing of her blood in her ears. 

Lockwood’s wallet and keys were on the table. 

So he was alone. 

Lucy didn’t realise she’d been holding her breath until she released it slowly. 

She removed the blanket - she hadn’t fallen asleep under a blanket? - and stood groggily, before making her way upstairs. 

Lockwood’s door was firmly shut, and she hesitated for a moment, listening to the absence of sounds. She raised a fist. She could- 

No. Stupid idea. 

The student hurried along the landing and into her own room, shutting the door behind her. 

She flopped into bed, surrounded by a multitude of stuffed toys, then pulled the covers up over herself. As she shut out all her thoughts, and began focusing on sleep, the silence seemed to settle in her chest and eardrums. 

But, even surrounded by her stuffed animals, Lucy couldn’t sink the feeling of troubling loneliness that, at that moment, seemed to permeate her very being. 


	21. —•••

Camp Bastion, 

Helmand Province, 

Afghanistan 

  
  


How could it be that the hottest place Lockwood had ever been was also the coldest? 

The sun might have glared down at the sprawling tent kingdom that was Camp Bastion, searing skin and baking metal and plastic, but at night the temperature plummeted, which was how Lockwood found himself curled up in his sleeping bag, staring vacantly at the back of the head of the guy in the camp bed next to him, a few metres away. 

The long tent, punctuated with grubby plastic film windows, was split up into a few dozen areas - each containing a folding bed, a metal locker, and the equipment of the occupant, propped at the foot of the bed. 

There were a couple of photos tacked to the side of Lockwood’s locker; the usual vaguely smutty cut-outs from magazines, him and Flo in the Arctic during training, his mother, father, and Jessica, and Lockwood and his girlfriend. The SAS logo of a winged sword had been Sharpie-d on the corner of each photo, and his initials. 

They hadn’t been dating for a huge amount of time, a few months. Her name was Ava, and she was a retail assistant in a department store. They’d met through Martin, who’d introduced them at a bar, and it had just… gone from there. 

He hadn’t wanted to die a virgin. 

Lockwood rolled into his back, staring up at the tarpaulin ceiling. 

Ava wasn’t… the sort of girl he’d thought that he’d like. 

She was tall, blonde, with sharp, pinched features, pouting lips, and piercing blue eyes, but nice enough; nothing like the softer, rounder figure Lockwood had always pictured in his fantasies. 

Brown hair, maybe. Freckles. Big, dark eyes. 

With silly habits - like… pulling at her jumper sleeves, or fiddling with stuff. 

Honestly, he’d never given it too much thought; before his parents’ accident, he’d been too focused on his studies to pay much attention to the opposite sex, and it was only afterwards, during training, that he’d  _ really  _ started to pay attention to girls. 

Or rather, that they paid attention to him. 

Girls  _ love _ a uniform, Flo had said, and she’d been right, it would seem. 

Perhaps it was the uniform, or the haircut, or the sudden surplus of physical strength he’d come into possession of, or the newfound confidence and purpose. Or perhaps all of them together. 

Someone further down the tent began to snore and snuffle. Someone shifted in their sleeping bag, and someone coughed. 

Lockwood’s eyes went back to the photos on the locker. 

There was one scrappy photo that caught his eye this time; a curvaceous, scantily clad brunette posing on a pool table, long brown waves spilling across her shoulders and over her chest as she gazed moodily at the camera, heavy brows furrowed sensuously. It was probably from some smutty magazine. He couldn’t remember. 

Lockwood framed her face between his eyelashes for a moment, before finally shutting his eyes and letting sleep claim him. 


	22. —-

Lucy hadn’t been ignoring Quill. 

It was just that she also hadn’t been… keeping an eye out for his texts. And calls. And FaceTimes. And snapchats. Or… anything else. 

So she should have been less surprised when he turned up at their door at four in the afternoon, looking thoroughly dishevelled, and righteously pissed, satin shirt hanging open but tucked into a pair of outrageously tight jeans. 

He barged past her and into the otherwise empty house. “Where have you been?! I was worried sick! Why weren’t you answering my texts?!”, he whirled on her, “you better have been having the most mind blowing sex for the past fourteen hours to explain this shit! And if so, you better tell me _everything!_ ” 

_Chance would be a fine thing._

“Quill, I’m fine. I just got caught up in my project. You know it’s important”, she placated calmly, “I’m sorry” 

He huffed. “Fine. But you better not have forgotten about the party tonight” 

“...” 

“Oh my god! You had one job! You _organised_ it!” 

“I have more on my plate than the LGBT society! I am getting a degree, you know!”. He looked skeptical, “yeah, but… an _art_ degree, Lucy, it’s hardly-“. “Oh my god, shut up! It’s art _history!_ How many times, Quill?!” 

“Whatever! Just get something low cut on and get your butt in my car! You’ve got an hour, and I’m assuming you haven’t bought any booze” 

She gave no reply. 

“I thought as much. Okay, move yourself” 

Another voice was suddenly at the door. “Are we being invaded? Oh, no, it’s just you, Quill. Thought it was Putin, all that pale, hairless chest”

Lucy choked back her laughter, turning it into an entirely unconvincing coughing fit. Lockwood stepped into the already-open front door and began removing his boots. Quill put his hands on his narrow hips. “Tony” 

If Lockwood minded the nickname, he showed no sign of it. “What are you doing here, sober, and before dark? Are you lost?” 

“I am here to collect your airhead roommate for a party”. “Oh, you are? Good, she was starting to act like a hermit crab”. “I’m still stood here, you know that, right?”, Lucy interrupted, “I haven’t walked off or anything” 

“Oh, we know”, they said in unison. 

She huffed in exasperation, and Lockwood grinned, walking past her and into the house. Quills eyes followed him like a dog follows a bone, before they suddenly widened. “Lucy! _Ask him!”_

The girl frowned. “Ask him what?” 

“To the party! Everyone would love him!” 

“Quill, he’s the straightest man on earth. He understands sports” 

“So?! He doesn’t have to _say_ anything! He can just stand there and look hot! Just because _you’ve_ already seen him naked, doesn’t mean-” 

“Just hire a stripper, oh my god! And I _didn’t look-_ ” 

“Why would I do that when your roommate could come for _free?!”_

“He won’t say yes. He probably has to do something adult. Like taxes”, Lucy folded her arms across her chest. 

“Or organising his medals”, Quill was looking past her and into the living room. 

“Or ironing” 

“Or doing squats” 

“... you’re looking at his arse again, aren’t you?” 

“... hm” 

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You ask him, I’m going to get dressed and do my hair” 

“Take your time…”. “And leave your horny self and my roommate alone for an extended period of time? I wasn’t born yesterday” 

“More’s the pity. We could have started your personality from scratch”, “Bitch”. “Love you” 

A short while later, and Lucy returned, wearing the cleanest things she’d salvaged from ‘The Chair’ - a roll neck shirt and skinny jeans, and some boots. It wasn’t _party_ wear, but it was smarter than what she’d been slopping around the house in. 

Quill stood at the door, arms across his chest. “... have you undone another button?”, Lucy raised an eyebrow, eying a seemingly expanding expanse of pale chest. He sniffed. “Perhaps” 

“So, did you ask?”. “Sure did. He’s just getting changed” 

“Oh my god, he said yes?”. “Of course”, the history student inspected his nails, “men are _always_ vulnerable to my charms, you know” 

Lockwood came down the stairs a moment later, wearing a collared shirt and dark trousers, still adjusting the collar. Lucy pursed her lips. “Formal, much?” 

Quill was suddenly beside her. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Luce. He won’t be wearing it for long”

-:-:- 

To say that Lucy had ever been popular would be a gross abuse of the truth. 

In primary school, she’d been the girl with the too-big blazer, scuffed shoes, and a battered book bag. 

In secondary, she was the girl with no style and no boyfriend, the ‘prude’, never fun enough to be invited to parties or to prom. 

In sixth form, she’d been too focused on her art to much _care_ what people thought, but she could only assume she wasn’t often mentioned. 

It had taken 18 years, but in the Queer Club, Lucy was finally popular. 

Events organiser, chair of debates, one of the first ten members, an ever-improving dress sense - it was probably a combination of factors, but Lucy didn’t particularly care. 

All she knew was that she’d just stepped through the door, and someone was already pushing a drink into her hand, and someone else was calling her name, someone grasping her arm. 

Quill shoved through the door after her, brandishing a box of assorted booze, slowly followed by Lockwood, who’s hesitation on the threshold of the room drew the stares of the majority of the room. It would have been deathly silent if not for the blaring music. 

“Oh my god… is that him? From the calendars?”, someone asked. There were murmurs and looks passing all around the room. 

Quill, as part of his duties as official host, cleared his throat. “Everybody, this is Lucy’s roommate, Lockwood! He’s a fireman and underwear model, so you all play nice with him, okay?” 

“Ah, that’s not-“, Lockwood began, but everyone was already yelling. 

Lucy allowed herself to be pulled away by Quill, glancing over her shoulder to see someone shove a bottle of something into his hand. 

-:-:- 

Lucy didn’t know how many drinks she’d thought it would take to get Lockwood drunk, but it wasn’t as many as he’d currently had. 

He sat at a table with Quill and a few others, an array of empty bottles and glasses across the table in front of him, laughing uproariously, but still _not_ completely drunk. 

She walked over, and stood beside Quill. Lockwood was chatting to a guy with blue hair, so Lucy leant casually against the table with a hip. “So…” 

“Mmhmm?”, Quill looked up, bottle in hand. 

“I notice that he’s still fully clothed. Perhaps there is a tiny, insignificant spanner in your plan” 

“Rubbish”, he sniffed, and sipped his cider, “this is exactly as I saw it. He’s _precisely_ where I want him!” 

“Sure…”, she rolled her eyes. 

“Yes! Just watch this”, he placed down his bottle, walked over to the speaker, and changed the song to something from the early 2000s, with a suggestive rhythm, before turning back to face her, “hey, Tony!” 

Lockwood looked up, and Lucy suddenly noticed that his eyes were not as clear and focused as they had first appeared. “What?” 

“Get your kit off!” 

Lockwood looked down at himself for a moment, before standing up and putting down his drink, and clambering onto the table. There was an immediate cheer as he began to fumble with his belt. 

Lucy covered her eyes. “Oh my _God_ …”, she murmured. 

The belt was rolled up, and hurled into a sea of grasping hands. The girl who caught it screamed. 

Wiggling his hips, he started on the top button of his shirt. 

“This is fantastic!”, Quill yelled. 

“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me!”, Lucy shouted back. 

Before he could reply, something white fluttered down onto Quills head, and he gave a shriek like a banshee on helium. “ _HIS SHIRT!”_

“Give it here-!”, Lucy snatched it off him, and was marching towards the table that Lockwood was still dancing on, all before Quill could put down his suspiciously-coloured beer and come after her. 

“Lockwood!”, she shoved to the front of the crowd, brandishing the shirt, “get down from there-!” 

He looked down at her, grinning, white teeth glinting. “Luce! Hey-! There you are! Come dance with me!” 

“You’re making a total arse of yourself! Get down!” 

“Aw, you’re no fun!”, his effervescent mood didn’t seem at all affected by her chiding, and his hands found the waistband of his trousers, and the noise level in the room increased by several decibels. 

“Lockwood! I’m not joking!” 

The firefighter turned to her fully this time, thumbs resting in his belt loops like some depraved Texan prospector, before he bit his lower lip, slid his hands towards his trouser button, and _winked_. 

Lucy suddenly felt very lightheaded. 

As did Lockwood, apparently, because he swoooned, then suddenly lurched forwards, hands swinging out in front of him to brace himself as he slumped onto the table. 

“Lockwood!” 

Lucy was beside him immediately. “Are you alright?!” 

He groaned lowly. 

There was another shriek from across the room, and now - somehow - Quill was topless. The crowd cheered, and their attention was diverted long enough for Lucy to help Lockwood outside and into the bracing air. 

They sat on a small set of narrow concrete steps, leading up from the street towards a back entrance into the university building, beneath a dim neon light. Beyond the small porch, there was a drizzle falling. 

Lucy tried to move Lockwoods heavy arms into the sleeves of the shirt, but found it was futile, and instead draped the shirt over him, like an elderly woman beneath a blanket. 

He blinked slowly, eyes hooded, before he slumped sideways and onto her shoulder, head resting on the soft spot between her shoulder and her chest. The student found herself being pushed gently sideways, and leant away, accommodating Lockwoods large frame. 

“... beautiful moon tonight”, she remarked, looking up at the sky. There was something between a snore and a grumble of assent beside her. 

Lucy found herself unable to look away from the yellowing silver sphere. Lockwood’s head was heavy on her torso, but she found that she didn’t mind. 

“... isn’t it strange?” 

“Huh” 

“Well… everyone that’s ever lived has looked at that one moon… like… all the Romans… Leonardo Da Vinci… Marie Antoinette… It’s the same moon” 

Lockwoods mind was murky with drink. Lucy’s voice seemed very far away but also _so very close_. He could hear her heartbeat beneath his cheek, and her warmth everywhere else. 

Her chest was straining against the stretchy material of the shirt. 

“... and I mean… it’s never changed… what we’re seeing is what they saw…” 

_Looks like fun._

“Huh…” 

Lucy sighed heavily, and Lockwood wobbled upright. The neon light overhead was whitish in its glow, but soft, and the sound of the rain and the cold air was soothing. 

His mind buzzed pleasantly, but his hands and arms felt heavy. The man looked at her as she looked up at the sky. Unsteadily, his eyes moved from her eyes to her mouth, hanging there for a moment, before down to her throat, and then lower, onto her chest, squeezed into a stretchy-type top, tucked into a pair of the tightest jeans that Lockwood had ever seen. 

A joke about a really tight dress or a really good paint job echoed somewhere in the caverns of his mind, and he chuckled stupidly. 

Lucy looked at him, and he gazed back. 

His eyes were cloudy but warm, the colour of strong coffee, and Lucy found herself unwilling to break his gaze. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it momentarily. 

Neither of them spoke or moved, or barely even breathed. 

The air between them seemed to snap and buzz with something palpable but lacking a name

Lucy’s mind was blank, heart pounding high in her throat. She’d never felt whatever it was that was suddenly humming, unspoken, between them, but she knew for certain that she didn’t want this to be the last time she felt it. 

Lucy wetted her lips slightly. 

Lockwoods eyes went to her lips and stayed there.

A thought echoed in the back of his mind, somewhere in the shallow recesses of sobriety that lingered. 

_He had to move out._

_And soon._


	23. •—•

_ Too small.  _

He clicked onto the next page. 

_ Too expensive.  _

Another click. 

_ Too… serial killer-ish.  _

Lockwood sighed, and clicked off the fifth webpage he’d visited, closing the laptop, and rubbing his face tiredly. 

_ He wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for her… _ his mind griped, and was swiftly silenced. 

It wasn’t Lucy’s fault that he was such a gross person as to find his  _ asexual _ roommate... sexually attractive, and it wasn’t fair to blame her. 

But it was fair for him to move out. 

Apartment hunting had been going appallingly; he wasn’t about to ask to stay in the guest room of a newly-married Oscar. Martin’s apartment was more of a shoebox than an apartment, and God knows what sort of biohazards were lurking there. 

The other apartments he’d found had all either been grim, or miles out of his pay range, even if he basically hadn’t spent anything since he was 18. 

The back door opened, and Lucy stepped inside, an easel under one arm, canvas under the other, and her paint set being juggled somewhere in between. “I love the outdoors, don’t get me wrong-“, she was saying, “but I’d love it  _ so _ much more if there weren’t so many  _ bloody insects- _ hey, that’s my laptop”

She dumped her stuff in front of the door unceremoniously. “ _ Our _ ”, Lockwood corrected her, not looking up. 

Lucy nudged her stuff out of the way of the back door with a heavy sigh, before picking up the canvas and presenting it proudly. Lockwood looked up. 

It was a bold painting; a bold, darkly coloured piece, of the pond, and the jade green foliage hanging over the water. But, beneath the shrub, there was a crouching tiger, it’s ferocious, gaping maw black and white against its orange coat. 

“Lucy, that’s gorgeous”, he grinned, “I told you there was a tiger out there! I told you!” 

“So you did”, she laughed. 

Lockwood sipped his tea, sighing, feeling his unsettled stomach be momentarily soothed by the warm drink. His hangover-migraine has been largely beaten back with painkillers and having eaten copious amounts of food after Lucy had driven them back home. 

He hadn’t forgotten about what had happened between them; that snap of heat, the frision of energy. 

That was attraction. 

And it had to be stamped out before it took root. 

Seemingly without having  _ actually  _ moved, Lucy was behind him. “What are you-“ 

He closed the laptop immediately. “Nothing” 

She took a slow step back, and a smirk began to grow. “... oh my god, are you  _ online dating?! _ ” 

“No!” 

“You are! It’s that or porn!”, she jumped forwards, hands outstretched for the laptop, and he grasped it, leaping out of his chair. 

He danced sideways, out of her grasp, and around the corner of the table- and fell over. 

The laptop was in mid-air when Lucy grabbed it. 

She opened it, placing it on the table to examine the screen. “... apartments?” 

He brushed himself off, standing, and clearing his throat. “Yes” 

“Wh-”, she looked up at him, “why? The contract lasts for another year, at least!” 

Lockwood looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Wh-why? Well, uh-” 

“Was it something I said?”. “What- no! No, not at all, I just-”. “Is it because I don’t do the laundry? Because I can learn! I swear!” 

“No, no, Lucy, it’s-... I’ve been offered a promotion”, he took a deep breath, remembering his training, training his face and body into an image of calm, casual confession, “more pay, but even worse hours. I’d just be coming and going at all hours of the day and night- and you’re setting up a new business once you graduate! You’ll need all the room you can get, I’d just be in the way!” 

She looked at him wordlessly. 

He shifted “Anyway… won’t you be pleased to have the house to yourself?” 

_ No.  _

“... Sure. I guess. This is just… very sudden” 

“Haha, yeah, I suppose it is. I only got told this morning, so it’s a surprise to me, too!”, he laughed awkwardly. 

“Yeah… anyway, I- um… I better get some work done”, she began gathering up her abandoned equipment, “good luck with your-... thing” 

Lockwood was alone once more in a matter of seconds. 


	24. —-••

Kobanî, 

The Rojava Region, 

Syria 

  
  


“So…” 

Somewhere in the near distance, a missile found its mark and there was a dull, thudding rumble. 

“So?” 

“You’ve got a girlfriend” 

Lockwood looked up from the magazine he was loading with rounds, and over at her greenish figure through his night vision monocle. “Yes” 

Flo was looking at him; her face was obscured behind a black balaclava, one eye tinted dark but just visible behind her shrapnel visor, the other hidden behind a night vision monocle like his - a small black box on a flexible arm, attached to the rim of her helmet. 

“...” 

Lockwood sighed, and pushed in the last round. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing at all”, she sniffed, and another volley of machine gunfire popped across the street in the compound opposite, “... just wondering why I’m the last person in the entire section to find out” 

He sighed again. “Flo-” 

“The last in the regiment” 

“That’s-” 

“The last in the entire fucking British army!” 

“Jesus, Flo, calm down”, Lockwood said softly, “it’s not that big of a deal” 

“We’re friends, Locky! I tell you everything, and you don’t even bloody tell me when you’re shagging someone!” 

“I’m sorry, Flo… I meant no harm by it, I just…”, he adjusted his helmet awkwardly. 

“Just  _ what? _ ” 

“... just knew that you wouldn’t approve”, he muttered. With a  _ pop  _ and a hissing sound, someone released a smoke grenade beneath the window of the room they were crouching in. 

“Lockwood, I would never judge your choice of partner. As long as you're happy-” 

“It’s Ava” 

“That bitch?!” 

Lockwood looked at her and said nothing. 

Flo took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m cool. I’m chilled” 

“Of course you are” 

“... so… Ava, huh…” 

Lockwood looked at her. “Yes. Ava. I’m dating Ava. We are very happy” 

“Uh huh…” 

“It’s great” 

“Mmhmm” 

“We’re very happy. The sex is great” 

“It would be. She’s always practicing…”, Flo muttered. 

Lockwood’s jaw tightened. “She’s not like that” 

“I have nothing against girls that do ‘practice’ a lot. I’m one of them, after all, sex positivity and all that, but you’re just being naive, Lockwood. Commitment and loyalty are not high on that girls list of priorities like they are on yours” 

The man glared at her, and opened his mouth to speak, when his radio crackled to life.

Flo was already standing. “Come on. We have to move” 

“This conversation isn’t over!” 

“Of course it isn’t”, she was out the door. 

“It’s not!”, Lockwood rushed after her. 

She cocked her rifle, standing in the cover of the doorway, Lockwood beside her. “Just shut up and cover me” 

He grumbled. “I always do, don’t I?” 

“You do” 


	25. —•-

“Oh my god, I actually can’t believe this!” 

“Lucy, you’re amazing!” 

“You’ve worked so hard, you deserve this and so much more!” 

Lucy found herself being buffeted from side to side at the bottom of the lecture hall, her class cheering and congratulating her as they slowly filed out. Macey had already disappeared, but Lucy found that she didn’t much care wherever she’d gone. 

Professor Martin stood by the lectern, smiling with an unfamiliar, almost maternal pride at Lucy. She flashed the student a thumbs up, and Lucy smiled. 

A moment later, the older woman was beside her at the door. “Excellent work, Lucy. You’ve come so far, and the art faculty… we’re very proud of you. Your anatomical sketches - oh! You had best believe that I’ll be using them as examples for new students!” 

Lucy felt herself blushing. “Oh- you’re far too kind, Professor” 

“Your sketches are always so… _intimate!_ You capture a person’s nature so well in your art… you must really know Mr Lockwood!” 

_Yeah, I thought so, too._

The graduate smiled politely. “Yeah, well, I suppose you do sort of… grow closer when you live with someone for as long as we’ve lived together” 

Professor Martin smiled back genuinely. “I had better let you go. I’m sure you have all sorts of admin to be dealing with! I’ll see you soon, Lucy”. “Thankyou, Professor” 

-:-:- 

The graduation ceremony the next day was a fairly elaborate affair; after she’d actually received her degree, and had innumerable photos taken of her with her classmates, participated in tearful hugs, joined in on excited screaming, Lucy suddenly felt rather… underwhelmed. 

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to happen upon her graduation - upon officially entering ‘the Real World’ - but she felt just the same as she had done before. 

Relieved. Nervous. 

Upset. 

That morning, as she’d rushed out of the house, accompanied by a mostly still-asleep Quill, she’d almost fallen flat on her face - over a box of Lockwood’s clothes. The man in question had appeared mere seconds later, and noticed her shocked stare. 

“Oh, sorry, I’ll get those out of your way” 

“... so you’ve found a new place?” 

“Ah, yeah. Nearer the fire station, nearer Martin… it’ll be more per month, obviously, but…” 

“Yeah” 

“I’ll be fine. You can even come and visit. I’ll throw a housewarming party” 

“Yeah” 

He’d picked up the box and left Lucy to be dragged out by Quill. 

George was stood beside her at the edge of the hall being used for the graduation ceremony, holding a glass of champagne. He sipped it. 

“So…”. Lucy looked at him. 

He was looking away across the room. “Lockwood’s moving out” 

“Yes” 

“... And… How do you feel about that?”, he asked nonchalantly. 

“I don’t feel any particular way about it”, Lucy replied immediately, “I couldn’t care less, in fact. They’ll set me up with another roommate soon enough, anyway” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. It’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. I’ll be fine” 

“Of course you will” 

Lucy snatched a glass of alcohol off a passing waiter, and downed it in one long gulp. George made a noise that Lucy knew to be a laugh. “I thought you had to be a failing artist for at least a couple of years before you began your descent into alcoholism” 

She thumped the glass down on the top of a ledge running around the room. “Yeah. After all, joblessness isn’t just for _mathematics_ and _history_ students anymore” 

-:-:- 

Lockwood sat in the front of his car, looking out of the window at the gallery - an imposing, Grecian style building, with palatial columns lining the front - and took a deep breath, summoning all the courage he could. 

_He could do this. Just go in, say hello, look at some paintings, and get out. Easy. Simple. Clean._

He adjusted his uniform jacket, got out of the car, put his hat on, and strode towards the entrance. 

-:-:- 

Lucy stood beside one of her paintings, nursing a drink, smiling politely when people approached. 

It was very odd seeing her work up on the walls of a professional gallery; her painting of bloody footprints trailing up a set of stairs, a tearstained face at the window of a terrace house, a rotting hand reaching out of a crooked old mirror, a gigantic spectral serpent. 

Quill appeared in front of her. “Hey. You good?” 

“Yeah. All good” 

He noted her half-empty glass, and poured some of his wine into it. “You sure?” 

She didn’t reply. 

“It’s about him, isn’t it?” 

The girl sniffed. “Who?” 

“You know exactly who I mean”

”I am not upset about _him_ leaving. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest” 

“Oh. That’s a shame. Because he’s just stepped inside”, Quill was watching over her shoulder. Lucy choked on an inhaled breath. “He’s- _where?!_ ” 

“He’s by the door. About six feet away. His dick is about five feet away” 

“I’m going to _die_ ” 

“Ooh, he’s got that nice uniform on again”

“I must have been so bloody awful in my past lives to deserve this”, she moaned. 

“I’ll leave you two…”, he smirked, and began to slide away, “ _alone”_

“I’m gonna _kill you-_ ” 

“Lucy?” 

Quill had vanished. Lucy turned, and came face-to-chest with six silver buttons against dark material. She slowly looked up. 

“Oh-! Lockwood! … hi” 

“Hi, Luce” 

“... hello” 

He smiled. “This is some fantastic work, Lucy. You must be really proud” 

“Oh, yeah- yeah, it’s… amazing” 

He smiled, holding a glass in one hand. “Well, I just thought I’d come and give you my well wishes. Martin’s agreed to help me move out tomorrow afternoon”, he glanced at her glass, “so… I had better say my goodbyes now. When you’ll remember them” 

Lucy’s stomach dropped rapidly. She had the desperate urge to reach out and grasp something and not let go. “Oh. Your-... right. Yeah. Goodbyes… yeah” 

He watched her for a moment, and then chuckled nervously. “God… I’d planned out what I was going to say so I wouldn’t make an arse of myself, and now I’m doing just that” 

“Oh, no, you’re not-” 

“I wanted to thank you. I know I’m not the most… easy of roommates, so… thankyou. For putting up with me. I… like to think that we’ve both grown… but myself especially, and I think in some weird, self-hating way… I’ll miss you, Luce” 

“... thankyou, Lockwood” 

“My door is always open to you if you need it” 

Lucy stared up at him, finding his face earnest and kind. She paused. 

“... And mine to you” 

The man smiled. There was a moment of silence. 

Lockwood looked at her, and took a breath, as if he was about to speak- 

Someone tapped their pen against a wine glass. “A toast for our fabulous up-and-coming artist, Miss Lucy Carlyle!” 

There was a murmur of agreement, and Lucy found everyone's eyes on her. She smiled shyly. “... thanks, everyone” 

There was a round of applause, and several guests moved around her. Lucy turned, seeking out the familiar tall, dark figure. He was gone. 

A broad silhouette vanished through the door. 

-:-:- 

The group assembled on the sofa began to sing loudly and very out-of-tune; “Weeeeee… like to drink with Lucy, ‘cause Lucy is our mate, and when we drink with Lucy, she gets it down in eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three-” 

Lucy slammed the now-empty beer bottle down on the coffee table, and there was a cheer. 

“Where do you put it all? You’re only little”, someone was laughing. 

Quill was sat beside Lucy, her head on his shoulder, staring at the pile of boxes in the corner. The redhead followed her gaze. “... what do you think you’ll miss most about him?” 

“... I don’t know… he’s a really good cook” 

“Bet you like his stuffing, don’t you, Carlyle” 

_Yeah, she thinks she would._

“You’re so gross” 

“Uh oh…”, someone was complaining, “we need some more booze” 

There were footsteps on the staircase, and Lucy peered over her shoulder. Lockwood was wearing a shirt and some dark trousers, descending the stairs with a pile of shirts. “Lockwood! Can we… pretty please… have some alcohol!” 

“Help yourselves, it’s in the fridge”, he said, avoiding eye contact, and walking over to one of the boxes. The light outside flickered for several seconds and then went out. Lockwood packed the shirts away and stood. 

_Should fix that before a drunk student goes arse over tits in the pond…_

He gathered a lightbulb from the drawer in the kitchen and ventured out into the dark. 

It didn’t take very long to change the bulb - the light was a small metal lantern nailed to the wooden deck railing. The light didn’t immediately return to the garden, as he’d switched it off at the wall. 

He brushed his hands clean, turned- and yelped. 

Barely half a metre away, was a dark, shadowy Lucy, clutching a beer can in one hand. 

“Jesus Christ, Lucy…”, he took a deep breath, “you scared me half to death” 

She was silent, swaying slightly, then hiccuping. Lockwood frowned. “Everything alright, Luce-“ 

The figure pitched forwards suddenly, and Lockwood instinctually held his arms open to catch her, and she fell into him. The beer can was sent flying. She was muttering something under her breath, and if Lockwood hadn’t known better he’d have thought she was saying- 

“ _Fuck me_ ” 

Lockwood’s breath caught in his throat. His hands found her elbows and he managed to keep her upright as she leant forwards. “Lucy, what-?!” 

“Please, please, please- please!” 

“Lucy, no-” 

She whined pathetically, and pushed against him. Lockwood stumbled backwards, ending up with his back against the deck railings. Twin prongs of confusion and temptation departed him. They were still bathed in darkness. A bubble of laughter drifted from inside. 

_But wasn’t she asexual-?_

“We don’t even have to do it inside-!”, she said breathlessly, “we can- we can do it on the deck chair! You can fuck me on the deck chair! Just- please!” 

_Evidently not._

His inner demons groaned in desperation. 

“Lucy, no. You- you can barely stand up! I’m not having sex with you!” 

“But I-” 

Lockwood grasped her firmly by the shoulders and pushed her back- but not before she reached down and grasped his crotch. 

Lockwood choked. 

Lucy grinned. “See? I’m not so bad-” 

He pushed her back and composed himself, pushing down the desire and anger he felt; anger at her, but mostly at himself. “Get inside” 

Her face fell. 

“But I thought-” 

His face changed, darkened. His voice was stern. “Get inside!” 

She wavered a little. Lockwood grasped her by the wrist and pulled her towards the door. He yanked it open and moved Lucy in front of him, and then inside. 

Everyone looked around. Lucy was silent. Lockwood’s face was stern and blank. “Alright. All of you. Get out” 

There was a moment of silence as they all looked at each other, before a scurrying rapidly and drunkenly for the front door. 

Lucy watched them go with a sorrowful expression, before hiccuping again. 

Lockwood turned to her. Lucy looked up at him, dark eyes wide and sad. “Go to bed”, Lockwood said sternly. 

She stared up at him for several seconds before she rushed forwards and grabbed at his shoulders, pushing up onto her toes and pushing her lips against his. It wasn’t so much a kiss as it was Lucy pressing her face against his. 

He pushed her back, gripping her shoulders, but she was like a horny eel; she slid out of his grip and reached for the fastenings of her little black dress. 

“For Christ’s sake-!”, Lockwood’s voice was choked as he grasped her hands and forced them away from their work, “get off me! Go to bed!” 

Her face fell. 

“Go!”, he roared. 

She sniffled, and then started to cry, before she rushed towards the stairs, stumbling out of her heels and thudding up the steps. 

Her door slammed.


	26. •-•

The paintings were a total mess. 

The two landscapes - one of a vampiric, ruined castle atop a craggy peak, the other of dark, rolling forests clinging to hills in a Swiss canton - were covered in a thick layer of grime, their corners battered, their frames cracked and mouldering. 

Lucy frowned into the crate, then smiled slightly.  _ Her first real challenges…  _

The client was a charming older lady; fashionable grey hair, lots of minimalist jewellery, a soft cardigan. Lucy was probably a third of age and she didn’t look that good. 

She’d start restoration work tomorrow, when the light was better, and she wasn’t on her third cup of tea of the evening; gently, she placed the lid back on the crate, closed the blind, and turned off the light. 

By the door, she took a moment to smile fondly at her little workroom. It wasn't much, but it was hers. 

As she turned, surveying the plain living room, it occurred to Lucy that that phrase could quite effectively be applied to the rest of her apartment - ‘not much, but hers’. 

This space was hers. Not her mothers, not the schools, not Quill’s, not Mailer’s, not- 

Not hers and someone else’s, also. 

Just hers. 

She wasn’t sure how that last thought made her feel, and really? She didn’t want to contemplate it. 

She had more important things to be considering, like paying bills and putting food on her table, and getting batteries for the smoke alarms and finishing the clean up and spider eviction she’d started of the bedroom closet. 

With her thoughts on her budget for the month, and where she could possibly squeeze out a little more personal spending money - she’d recently discovered that,  _ actually _ , buying and wearing lingerie was  _ rather fun _ ; she felt sexy and like she had a secret, as ridiculous as it sounded - she showered and brushed her teeth. 

Her phone dinged. The name ‘Gay Bastard & Co.’ flashed up on the scream, and she opened the message. 

_ ‘Martin and I are going to some water park tomorrow - u interested?’  _

Lucy was quick to reply.  _ ‘Can’t, sorry, I have restoration to do - can’t spend every Saturday with u and ur bf’  _

Yeah, Quill was dating Martin, one of the straightest looking men Lucy had ever seen. 

_ ‘Rude _ ’, came his reply, and then several seconds later, ‘ _ don’t worry, good luck!!! U have worked so hard and u deserve this!’  _

She smiled, and thanked him. 

Maybe, sometimes, she did deserve nice things. 

Too tired to pick a pretty nighty, Lucy grabbed an old pair of Quills gym shorts and a tank top, and threw those on. 

Once she’d checked that her phone was on charge, and all the lights were off, she settled down beneath her covers, and shut her eyes. 

As if the subconscious part of her brain that hated Lucy had been waiting, a familiar face drifted behind her eyelids. 

She frowned, and then glared, eyes snapping open. 

She didn’t know if it was shame, attraction, or guilt that meant she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head in the six weeks that they’d been apart - not that she was counting, because she  _ wasn’t _ \- but whatever it was, it wouldn’t stop. 

With a heavy sigh, she reluctantly closed her eyes again, and gazed at the face until she slid into exhaustion and the dark. 

In her bathroom, there was a quiet  _ ‘pop’,  _ and the inky blackness of the windowless room was disturbed by a shower of blue sparks, bursting from the ceiling light like an exotic blooming flower. They wafted down, a greater number landing on the tiled shower floor and extinguishing in the damp. 

Several, carried by an unseen draft, were instead deposited on the rug in front of the sink. 

The room was dark for several seconds, before a small orange glow blossomed into life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I am not an electrical engineer, as you might have guessed. Oh well.


	27. ——•

Mogadishu, 

Somalia, 

The Horn of Africa 

  
  


It was raining. 

It had been raining for two days, and it showed little sign of stopping. 

Lockwood raised the night vision goggles slowly to his face, peering through the lenses and down the hillside towards the tumbledown compound at the foot of the hill, surrounded by fruit trees and cattle. 

The not-so-distant ocean crashed gently against the sandy shore, and despite the clouds, the moonlight was almost eerily bright. 

The ground beneath the tarp that he and Flo were laying on was slowly sinking, turning to sludge thanks to the Somalian  _ ‘dayr’ _ rainy season. 

They’d been there, (under the cover of some scrubby looking trees and shrubs), for almost 24 hours, unable to move, or really talk. It was only at night, in the dark, that they could even shift about or scuttle off to relieve themselves somewhere in the bushes without being seen and subsequently shot. 

“So…”, Flo began, and Lockwood already knew that his girlfriend was about to be brought into the conversation, “... how is she?” 

“Ava is fine, thankyou for asking” 

“Great, great… great” 

“You want to say great one more time?” 

“I’m just saying” 

“Saying what?” 

Flo was silent. 

Lockwood didn’t look at her. “Look, I know that you don’t like her-“ 

“-I like her about as much as you like wearing Capri shorts-“ 

“-but she’s my first proper girlfriend and she means a lot to me. I don’t know if anyone else will ever love me the way she does. Everyone… makes mistakes” 

“Lockwood, the blue eyeshadow that I wore in year 10 was a  _ mistake _ , but trashing your boyfriend's favourite shirts because he forgot to call you isn’t a mistake, it’s borderline abuse” 

“Now you’re just being dramatic” 

“For God’s sake, open your eyes, Locky! You’re a smart guy, why are you being so bloody thick?!” 

“Flo-“ 

“What would your parents say?” 

Lockwood’s face darkened. “You-“ 

Out at sea, a single white light - reminiscent of a very low hanging star - began to blink rapidly, bobbing rhythmically, a short height above the waves. 

Lockwood fixed his eyes on it, and beside him, Flo began to scribble in her notebook as he spoke. 

“Sierra… Hotel… Indigo… Papa… Foxtrot… Lima… Echo… Delta”, he whispered, decoding the morse as quickly as it was sent, whilst Flo wrote it all down. 

Then, as suddenly as the light had appeared, it disappeared. 

There was no movement or sound except for the sea and the insects. 

“Ship fled”, Flo muttered, “you’d think they’d use some sort of code, wouldn’t you?” 

Lockwood was silent. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t sulk. You’re not five. Just because you know I’m right and you can’t bloody deal with it, doesn’t mean that you have to get all moody about it” 

“...” 

“Your folks would have hated her, and you damn well know it. Find someone arty or something, like your mum was. Or at least someone with two brain cells to rub together” 

“... fuck”, he muttered. 

Flo didn’t look smug. “She might have been your first, but she can be the first of many. Or just a couple. I’m not trying to judge your lifestyle choices, I’m just trying to look out for you, alright?” 

“... yeah” 

“‘Cause you look out for me” 

“Yeah” 

“So stop sulking, and stop saying ‘yeah’” 

“...”, he smiled ever so slightly, “yeah” 

Flo chucked a lump of mud at him. 

“Find a brunette like that one in that porno picture you have or something, I dunno, just… someone good for you” 

Lockwood thought about that for a moment, face pensive. 

He did like brunettes. 

“Yeah. Alright. I will” 

“You will?” 

“I will” 

“You mean it?” 

“I mean it” 

She punched his arm affectionately but painfully hard, as per usual. “I knew you still had some brain cells rattling around up there. Put them to some good use, won’t you?”, and then, “oh, shit, we have movement” 

Lockwood lifted the goggles to his face, apprehensive but smiling. 

The best way to be. 


	28. •••

Lockwood stretched his legs out the full length of his cot, one hand behind his head, the other holding up his book as he listened to the shower pipes clanging in the walls. 

A few minutes later, and the sound stopped, and Inderveer entered the dormitory, waist wrapped in a towel, passing Lockwood’s cubicle without stopping. A few moments later, he returned, fully dressed. “Quiet night” 

“Hmm. All the students are at home, that’s why” 

“Less drunks getting their heads stuck between railings” 

“Exactly” 

The other man’s phone suddenly began vibrating in his pocket. “Hello, _makhna”_ , he said fondly, walking away. Lockwood watched him leave; make no mistake, Lockwood was nowhere near proficient in Punjabi, but in his months since joining the city’s fire department and working with Inderveer - a very unshakeable man in his late 30s - he’d learnt several Punjabi pet names for Inderveer’s wife. _Makhna, heeriye, soniye._

He was happy that they were happy. 

Of course he was. 

But there was no denying that it made him feel alone. 

The less said about that, the better. 

The bell on the wall came screaming to life before he could follow that particular train of thought. 

Before Lockwood was even aware of it, he was moving towards the door and down the stairs. 

-:-:- 

Apartment fires were always difficult. 

Aside from the difficulty of locating the source of the fire, the structural integrity of the building was always a concern. Staircases became 100x more difficult to scale in 900 **°** heat. Glass starts to ooze. Metals became soft. It wasn’t like a house, where if the worst really came to the worst, you’d be facing a five metre drop from a window as you hurled yourself out of it. The same could not be said for apartments. 

And then there was the sheer volume of human life at risk. 

It was Lockwood’s turn to go in and fetch survivors - his, Inderveer, and Gwen’s. They were both highly competent, and Lockwood trusted them implicitly, but it didn’t make it any less nauseating as he climbed down out of the fire engine, parked a safe distance from the building, and was already being hit with a wave of unbearable heat. 

A large group of apartment dwellers had assembled outside - elderly women in their pastel nighties and fluffy slippers, clutching cats and small dogs, bleary eyed children being held by alarmed parents, bewildered young people staring up as their livelihoods went up in smoke - but the landlady was already explaining to them that the fire was still, (thankfully), contained on the fourth floor - at least, for the time being. 

Lockwood pulled on his bunker gear, snatched up an axe, as did the others, and rushed in. 

It was a fairly standard apartment complex; a wide stairwell led up to a long hallway with a barred window at the end. Most of the apartment doors had been left open, with smoke emerging from a few of them. There were only two that remained. 

Gwen picked one, and Lockwood took the other; swinging his axe, it came down with a _crunch_ in the centre of the door, and several more blows forced it off its hinges. 

The apartment inside was small and filled with black smoke. 

Aside from a kitchen and living room, which he entered as soon as the door fell open, there were three further doors, one of which was open. Inside, the flames were almost perfect white, dancing over the exposed wall insulation, and licking up the ceiling, spilling out across the walls and ceiling of the main room. 

The door beside it was probably a bedroom. 

This door opened without resistance; inside, it was dark, not just from the lack of light, but because the air was thick with smoke and soot. He switched his torch on and held it at eye level, scanning the room. 

There was something crumpled in the centre of the bed, beneath a canopy of smoke. 

Inderveer was at his shoulder, taking the torch from him as Lockwood rushed inside. He dragged the blackened covers off of the figure, and pulled them across the bed towards him, forcing a respirator mask over their stained face. 

They didn’t move. 

Lockwood lifted them over his shoulders and into a firefighters carry. 

Back in the hallway, and Gwen signalled that the other apartments were empty. 

An ambulance had already arrived outside, lights flashing, paramedics hovering preparidly. Lockwood hurried to the back of the ambulance, carefully depositing the figure onto a gurney. 

HIs helmet visor was clouded by soot, and he stumbled over to the fire engine, removing it and wiping at his eyes. Gwen propped her axe against the wheel, and offered him a cloth to wipe his face free of sweat. 

When the adrenaline had subsided, and he was taking greedy breaths of cold night air, he glanced over at the ambulance. 

He gasped softly. 

-!-!- 

Lucy’s mind felt wavy and foggy. 

She felt nauseous, and light headed, and her throat was _raw._

Reality _dipped_. 

Or, at least, it felt like reality - it was actually just the ambulance. 

“... I really didn’t think it would be like this” 

She didn’t open her eyes, feeling like the slightest change in light levels would send her meagre dinner flying back up her digestive tract. “... what?”, she rasped. 

“Seeing you again. Not like this” 

She slowly opened her eyes. 

Lockwood was crouching beside her. 


End file.
